


Butterfly Wings

by Z Reichhardt (KaiosReins)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Don't Read This, Historical, Islamophobia, Nazis, Original Fiction, Other, Racism, Sexism, Time Travel, Triggers, World War II, first draft of something I'll fix later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaiosReins/pseuds/Z%20Reichhardt
Summary: What is a Nazi when you remove the racism?Nicola Atkins finds herself the lone survivor of a band of rebels, thrown back in time to pre-WW2 Berlin to prevent the genocide that grips people from her time. Unfortunately, to avert the racism of War Three, she is tasked with ensuring success of the Lebensraum - which goes against everything she stands for and believes in.Morality clashes ensue as Nicola is forced to side with those she was raised an enemy of, both out of survival and a need to prevent the future she comes from. As if that isn't difficult enough, balancing out paradoxes and inconsistencies requires finding the perfect middle ground between cruelty and mercy - and as people begin to follow her example, the future shifts from what it was, and what was planned, to something terrifyingly new...





	1. Eins

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, if anything related to WWII upsets you, don't read this. Don't expect a romanticisation of events. This is real, gritty, and will get very dark. There will be outright racism, homophobia, Islamophobia, anti-Semitism, sexism, everything. This is not a story where the female protagonist is protected by a brave Nazi knight questioning his beliefs. This is a work featuring greatly exaggerated events from recent history (the past two decades), and if you find yourself questioning your beliefs, then congratulations - you have achieved self-awareness.
> 
> If you ignore this note, read on, and find yourself offended - don't say you weren't warned.
> 
> Also, please bear in mind that this piece is constantly under editing. If you have constructive feedback to give, please don't hesitate to respond.

You wait for the shadows to pass, before darting out of your hiding place, bare feet hardly making a sound as you race across the road. The evening breeze tugs at your hijab as you disappear into an alleyway, pinning yourself to the wall the second you reach the shadows, straining your ears for a few seconds.

No shouts. No gunshots. You exhale softly with relief, before ducking further into the alley and crouching behind a dumpster. You reach into the folds of the robe you've adopted, and pull out the small mobile device. By all rights, it shouldn't still function, but you're lucky enough to know someone who happens to be good with obsolete technology.

_I'm here_ , your text reads. Short and simple.

A door behind you opens silently, and you waste no time in throwing yourself through the open doorway, almost falling headfirst down a steep flight of industrial steel steps. A large hand grabs your shoulder almost painfully, halting you in your fall, but you can't see the owner of the hand as the door is closed, plunging you both into darkness.

“ _Nu ti dayosh_ Nikola, your balance kill you!”

You feel a smile tug at the corners of your lips as you look up at the giant male that has caught you. You hastily reach up to tug the hood off your head, running a hand through your hair as he flicks on a torch.

“Good to see you too, Stannich,” you tell him. The burly Russian scowls slightly at you, still reprimanding you for your clumsiness, but he relaxes.

“No trouble coming here?”

“Had to hide from a patrol just outside the alleyway, but their backs were turned when I ran. Quiet as usual out there.”

You begin to follow him as he descends into the basement, torchlight illuminating the steep stairway that curves away before you. “So what's this about? Matt didn't have time to give me the specifics, just that it was pretty important.”

“You are last to arrive. We begin now.”

You follow Stannich into a low room that could have once been a wine cellar, if not for the iron piping and steel beams supporting the ceiling. In the centre of the room is an oval table, with twelve chairs set at intervals around the two broad edges. Ten of the seats are occupied – seven by humans, three by wreaths of fake flowers and small A5 portraits in glass frames.

You slide into one of the remaining seats, and Stannich takes the one opposite you. A woman in her late fifties, with iron-grey hair fanned around her head in a style typical of an 80s housewife, nods at you wordlessly, and you return the gesture. On her left sits a grinning blonde-haired blue-eyed male in his early twenties, and to her right sits a scowling, balding man with wire-rimmed glasses and a moustache that probably looked better before white men were forbidden specific grooming products.

“Now that we are all here, we can begin,” the woman says, her tone clipped and measured, her words enunciated in that impeccable style typical of high British. You know her as Bethany, though you've begun to nickname her as Beth – much to her dismay. You don't care.

Bethany looks expectantly at a small man with a round face and slanted eyes. Kizaki is fiercely Japanese, and due to the Arabic-Asian treaty, he is permitted to carry his weapon with him when he wears the traditional dress of the Samurai – which he has vowed to never remove, you're pretty sure. You don't mind, though – he's one of the two men in the room who is allowed to act as your escort, and there is nothing more empowering in this modern world than walking down the street with a freaking Samurai at your side.

Kizaki stands and bows stiffly, formally, before he begins to speak, his accent distorting his words only slightly.

“I am pleased to report that we have mapped out potential benefits and consequences of the journey, and we have settled on a potential location.” He tells the group. Everyone sits up a little straighter at this information, and you can see questions ready to burst on the lips of most of the rest of the table's occupants.

“How do you know it is the best point, though?” A pale girl with dark blonde curls leans forward in her seat. Kayli, a Finnish backpacker with grand visions of a greater world. You like her a lot. A _lot_ a lot. She seems oblivious to your attentions.

“That is the only issue that remains,” Kizaki replies, “We cannot be absolutely certain of the success – but the further back we go, the more certain failure becomes. We cannot tolerate failure.”

“None of us has the ability or political influence to slip into politics and prevent Desert Storm,” Hendricks, the man with wire glasses, mutters loudly. “And it would take more than one of us to prevent the backlash from 9/11. It isn't pleasant, but this is our best bet.”

You and the other three younger people look at him, frowning slightly. He nods at Kayli, then at Matt – the blonde American.

“Given the location that is our current option, it will have to be one of you,” he continues, the hint of his French accent lilting his words slightly as he nods at the two blondes, “Though, if we are to ensure success, Matthew would be a better option, with his Aryan features--”

You notice Stannich's hands tighten their grip on the edge of the table, and Matt stops leaning on his chair.

“My _what_ features? What did you just call me, Frenchie? If you're being racist--”

“Enough!” Bethany stands up, slapping a hand on the table. “Hendricks, Kizaki, spit it out – what is the location?”

France and Japan exchange a glance, and for a moment you can see past Kizaki's guard. He's uncomfortable with the idea of mentioning this.

“Nazi Germany,” Hendricks says finally.

Everyone is silent around the table as you all let the information sink in. Nazi Germany. One of you has to go back to Nazi Germany. You realise that Hendricks is right – Matt is the best person for the job, with his Aryan features. The only problem is he doesn't speak a word of German, and if he did learn he would still have an American accent to it. Americans did not go well in Nazi Germany.

“Why?”

The question comes from the Spaniard. He flips a lock of dark brown hair out of his eyes, fixing Hendricks then Kizaki with a black gaze. “Surely there are other points in time where genocide was attempted, or where white Christians have wronged Muslims? Enduring Freedom, Desert Storm, and the Holocaust cannot be our only options.”

You have to agree with him. “If we took out Hussein before he can order the invasion of Kuwait--”

“Desert Storm built the world you were born in, Nicola,” Bethany tells you, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Without Hussein, who knows what changes might have happened? We cannot risk creating a paradox.”

“My Ma met my Dad when he was on shore leave,” Matt adds, “He was in Desert Storm. Without it, he wouldn't have been in Hawaii at the time, and they wouldn't have me. And that means I'm kaput,”

“Yes, because nonexistence of little American will end world.” Stannich says with an eyeroll. You throw your head back and sigh.

“Enough beating around the bush,” you tell Hendricks and Kizaki, “We have the ability to make a round trip to a specific point in time. It was up to you pair to figure out the best way to divert this war, so tell us – why Germany? What purpose would preventing it have to us now?”

They exchange another glance, now looking even more nervous, and you think you catch onto something. You push the thought to the back of your mind. It's impossible. Insanity.

“The Holocaust is the most recent example of genocide we have seen,” Hendricks states carefully, “Now, we live in a second era of genocide. Muslims are executing people in the streets for not being Muslim. Women are forced to be submissive, when that is not the world they were raised in. We...” he sighs, bowing his head. “We need to use the second World War, make an example of it, an example so horrific that nobody ever intends to follow it.”

You're shaking your head, and you can see that some of the other sociopolitical majors at the table are also expressing denial at this suggestion. Kizaki bows his head.

“We chose Nazi Germany, because we need to ensure the Nazis succeed.”

“Not completely,” Stannich corrects him, “First conquest was Russia. They succeed there, and that is all. Allies hold them back in west, but Russia should fall.”

Bethany is shaking, staring at the table with her hands pressed against the polished wood. She shakes her head.

“No.”

“It is the only option,” Hendricks tells her, patting her softly on the back. She continues to shake her head.

“We can't-- It's madness--”

“What, you're sayin' we let the Nazis _win_?” Matt demands, “Let them _kill_ every Jew in eastern Europe? Do you even hear yourselves? I expected as much from Ching-Chong over there, but Hendricks, _you're Jewish_! How can you agree to this? It might wipe you out as well?”

“My family are only Jewish for the last two generations,” Hendricks admits, “And French. If Germany is busy with Russia, they will have no interest in France.”

Rodriguez scowls at Hendricks. “So you condemn the Polish and Austrians and Ukrainians while in the same breath sparing your own hide? Typical Frenchman! Always seeking the coward's way out!”

Hendricks is on his feet in an instant. “At least we _tried_ to defend ourselves! What did Spain do? I don't remember any stories of bravery from Spaniards in that time!”

Rodriguez throws his chair back suddenly as he stands, glaring fiercely at Hendricks. Kayli puts a hand on his arm, silently urging him to sit down, but he doesn't seem to notice.

“Both of you, _stop it now_!” Bethany roars. Both men continue glaring at each other, but slowly resume their seats.

Your group is a diverse little collection. As a joke, you began to call yourselves the Post-Islam UN, but it's not a name you'd dare to utter in public. After all, it's been over three years since Islamic State successfully took over the US, and they just keep multiplying, it seems. Strict regulations have been placed on anyone who is white, or not born Muslim, and some white Christians are often executed immediately if they can't answer questions about the Qu'ran when asked. Women are forced to wear hijabs and can't leave their houses without an appropriate male escort, and any Christians who refuse to convert are worked to death.

You look around the table. Russia, America, England, France, Finland, Japan, South Africa, and you as the only Australian at the table. You were here on an internship three years ago and now your family probably thinks you're dead. You don't blame them; you were always rebellious, even as a kid. But they don't seem to realise that it's not very noble to become a statistic. You've bit back the urge to snap back at your supervisors, sometimes so much that you've got permanent scarring on your lower lip. You've had so many beatings for being rude, that there's almost never a part of your skin that isn't black.

Being an independent woman in the new Islamic State is not easy, but you're lucky that you're too pale for any of them to want you as a wife (or concubine). Your eyes are apparently an unsettling green, and for all their supposed masculinity, most of the men that act as your supervisors struggle to meet your gaze when you're feeling particularly empowered.

It's much more difficult for Kayli. She was a Scandinavian model before all of this, and the only reason she wears a gold wedding band around her finger is because Rodriguez refused to allow her to be subjected to the violence and brutality of an Islamic State marriage. Neither of them act as more than friends when in private.

You're not sure how Stannich, Hendricks, and Bethany fit into the weird medley, but Matt worked in the same hotel as you and only just survived the night known as the First Purge by reciting an entire section of the Qu'ran. As your workmate and older than you, he is allowed to escort you in public. Kizaki was an immigrant who had only just gotten settled when IS declared the US as their own, but he was spared from the purge by his nationality – the Asian Alliance formed a peace treaty with Islamic State about three weeks prior, and IS observe it strictly.

The tall black South African that sits at the far end of the table is almost always silent, and you can only recall one instance where he spoke, his deep voice soothing the fight that had broken out. With so much diversity, fights broke out often, but one of them would always be able to bring the others back down from their high horses.

“This is what we know,” Kizaki states, gripping the hilt of his katana nervously, “The device enables a round trip with each charge – once there, and once back. We do not have the means to charge it a second time, so we _must_ ensure a successful mission, or at least the highest possible chance of success. We are currently experiencing a time that is extremely similar to Nazi Germany taking over Europe. Genocide happened then, and it is happening now. And we know that all of this came about because we allowed Islamophobia to manifest itself in white Christian nations. Any questions?”

“I wouldn't compare it to the Nazis taking over Europe,” Kayli mutters. Everyone swings their head to look at her, and she realises she was heard. She shrugs. “We were the ones who shot first. White people allowed fear of terrorism to pigeonhole an entire subgroup of people. Sounds a lot like how the Nazis perceived Jews, _ja_? We are experiencing the backlash – as though the Jews are fighting back, and aren't actually already cowed into submission.”

You're nodding your head to her words. “She's right,” you say, “Islamophobia came first – it was really bad in Australia at the height of the noughties. People were straight up rejecting taxi drivers if they even looked remotely Arabic, and this kid I went to school with got beaten up just because his surname was Derboghossian. It makes sense that they'd get sick of that and fight back – especially since, in their mind, Western military are cowards.”

“Either way, we need a strong example,” Hendricks shrugs, “The most recent event in Western history, nay, world history, is World War Two.”

Everyone sits around the table for a few minutes, digesting this information once again. You shake your head.

“I'm not being involved,” you tell them, “You can... plan the Holocaust, the-- the Lebensraum, whatever. I don't care. But I'm not being involved if that's what this is becoming.”

You start to stand up, to walk out of the room, but Stannich grabs your arm.

“You sit. You wait. Hear plan first, then run away.”

You could almost groan at his statement, but you reluctantly settle back into your seat.

“So are we agreed?” Bethany sighs heavily, “Go back to the Third Reich and... I can't even say it.”

“Eleven million people died,” you tell the others emphatically, “There's _got_ to be another time in history. Surely!”

“The further back we go, the less likely the chances of success are,” Kizaki tells you, “And the device only has a range of around a hundred years or so. There's nothing else in that time period that would be powerful enough to set an example that will settle in the minds of modern youth.”

“I'm not in favour,” you tell the table at large.

“Are we even ready to take a vote?” Rodriguez asks. Most of the table begins to nod, and he sighs. “All in favour?”

You fold your arms as Kizaki and Hendricks raise their hands. Surprisingly, Bethany joins them, then Rodriguez. You stare at the four of them, then look to Stannich.

He slowly raises his hand. Matt and Kayli join him.

“All those opposed?”

You firmly thrust your arm into the air, while the South African raises one hand from the folded arms he keeps before him.

“Seven for, two against. Bethany?”

This is normal procedure. If you can't all reach a unanimous decision, then Bethany gives the final order.

You watch her in horror as she nods once.

“Let it happen.”


	2. Zwei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the warnings. All of them.

You hear footsteps approaching, but you don't turn to face the approaching hulk. If he tries to tell you to go back to that room, you've already decided to refuse. You can't face them. Not right now.

“Is nice night.”

You don't look at him as he steps up beside you, the fire escape groaning slightly under his weight.

“I won't change my mind,” you tell Stannich. He huffs softly.

“I do not plan to change your mind.”

“Yeah? You're different to all the others, then.”

“They want you to stay.”

“How?” You turn to face him, “How can I stay with a group of people who would condone _genocide_? Your own people, Stannich – they'll be massacred like rabbits in a field!”

Stannich bows his head, acknowledging your statement. “Russia is strong. Soviets would make it difficult, if not impossible, to take all of her. We are good children; we protect our mother.”

Once again, you're reminded that Stannich is a firm supporter of communism. Each to their own, you guess; you've never let it affect your friendship in the past.

“You know our words, Nicola. All of the brave men are dead. Why are they dead?”

You roll your eyes. Now is hardly the time to get a history lesson. “Because they willingly gave their lives fighting for something, and the sacrifice is what makes them brave.”

“No.”

You look up at him, a little surprised. “But--”

“Yes, brave men give lives. But is not sacrifice words speak of. Is decision to follow cause to death, that is brave. Sometimes, cause is difficult to follow especially in difficult time. Like now,” he fixes you with a hard look. “But courage makes perseverance. Even with hard choices. Takes much courage to make difficult decision, yes?”

You sigh, nodding slowly. “It just... feels wrong.”

“Of course it does. You were raised hearing bad stories. But Nazis gave us assault rifles, jets, genetics, many good things. And you can admit, their uniform look good, no?”

You snort at that. “Stannich, I didn't know you were gay.”

“I have eye for design. Uniforms are aesthetically pleasing. Not useful, but aesthetically pleasing.”

You sigh heavily, leaning on the railing of the fire escape. “Eleven million people died, though. It was one of the worst wars in human history, besides the crusades.”

“A billion have died in this war alone,” Stannich replies, “You would kill another ten million, if that.”

“What if it kills our ancestors?”

Stannich shrugs. “Bethany will live. I will live. Hendricks? Will live. Kizaki is safe, and Rodriguez. Matthew goes without saying, and you--”

“My great grandmother was German,” You tell him suddenly. He shrugs.

“Your grandfather was born 1939, _da_? In Australia? Then you will also live.”

You sigh, relaxing slightly as you continue to lean on the railing. “What about Kayli, though? She's Finnish.”

“Kayli's name is not a common one. Will be easy to protect her ancestors from Nazis. Matthew is clever for American. He will figure out how.”

You huff, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. “So that's that, then? We're sending Matt back to Nazi Germany?”

“His orders are to ensure the success of the 1941 invasion,” Stannich reassures you, “Nothing else. Hendricks, Bethany, and Kizaki are already briefing him in how to do this.”

“He'd have to face Hitler directly,” You sigh, “And when you give an American the opportunity to meet Hitler, suddenly they're all patriots and want to shoot the guy.”

“There will be no shooting of Hitler. He will be sent further back, to be given time to work his way up in the military. Could take years – but for us, will only take a few days. Return point has already been set.”

“I guess that's the first thing you should always do when sending someone into enemy territory,” you sigh, “Make sure they can get themselves out. What are we doing about the accent?”

“He is being forced to speak in only German from this point on. We are hoping that by the time he is ready to go, he has assimilated the language.”

“You know how difficult that's gonna be,” you sigh, “Americans refuse to relinquish their accents.”

“Perhaps will sound European by time of mission.”

“Fat chance,” you throw your head back and groan loudly. “I hate to say it, Stannich, but I don't think this is gonna work. Worst case scenario, we lose Matt as well.”

“That will not happen.”

His voice is dark, and just from the tone, you're almost certain that he would punch a hole in the space-time continuum just to pull out your American friend. The concern is amusing to you, mainly because Matt is a hardcore capitalist, and the two nations have never really been friends in the past.

Funny, how the threat of extinction causes unlikely allegiances to form.

“We go inside now, _da_?”

You nod slowly, exhaling your frustration and anxiety. “So we're actually doing this. Going full Nazi.”

“ _We_ will not. Matthew... may be forced to.”

You're not sure if you like that. When he returns, you wonder what he'll be like. If what Stannich has said is true, he'll at least be older by a few years. Will he have fully conformed? You shudder at the idea of Matt becoming a Nazi, but given the amount of brainwashing that was employed in that era, you think that it's entirely possible. Especially since he'd need to conform as much as possible to avoid suspicion.

You're still hesitant about the entire plan, but at least Stannich has done something to calm your anxiety about it. You just need to desensitise yourself. The death toll of the current racial war is more than ten times that of the second world war – if doubling the toll of that prevents this catastrophe, then...

Is it really worth it, though? Sacrifice is only honourable, noble, when it is a choice. Otherwise, it's murder. Right?

You're conflicted, and the more you sit in on the planning sessions, the more you feel yourself torn between preventing the Holocaust, and preventing the Islamic invasion. If there were some way to guarantee success, you think you'd probably feel more comfortable about the whole situation, but with everything so uncertain...

You can't shake this threat of failure, though.

“I still can't get the hang of it,” Matt tells you as you sit together eating in the hotel restaurant where you work, demonstrating a sound incorrectly, “I can't do it. I'm gonna be caught in, like, less than an hour of showing up.”

“You'll be fine, you just need to practise,” you try to reassure him. He gives you a slightly fearful look.

“What if I can't, though? What if this entire thing gets blown to hell because I can't even say _doych_ properly?”

“ _Deutsche_ ,” you correct him, “Look at each individual letter and pronounce it, then string the whole word together.”

“That takes too long, and I'd have to re-learn literally everything I already know,” he sighs, “You're better with languages. You picked up Dari real quick. Maybe you should go instead.”

“See, I'm lacking three critical things needed for this plan,” you point out, “Aryan features, the conviction to actually carry it out, and a dick.”

Matt snorts into his curry. “Why is the dick so important?”

“Women in Nazi Germany were expected to be homemakers. A homemaker isn't going to achieve whatever it is we need to achieve.”

“Maybe you could marry Hitler and influence him from the bedroom.”

“ _Ew_! _No fucking way_!” You start to stand up, but a quick glance at the guard on the door tells you to remain in your seat. You lower your voice to hiss at Matt. “If I ever got close enough to Hitler, I'd probably kill him.”

“Let's kill Hitler, 'cos that's totally the best way to solve the Holocaust,” Matt rolls his eyes, but he's smirking, “If Hitler died, Himmler would probably step up. And then shit would be _worse_. Himmler would actually _listen_ to his generals and wouldn't make the same mistakes Hitler did. We'd be living in a Nazi state, not Islamic.”

“Which would be worse?” You ask suddenly. Matt frowns at you. “Nazis or IS?”

Matt considers this carefully for a few moments, brows furrowed as he gazes at his curry. You can almost hear the gears ticking over in his head.

“Honestly? I'd fare a lot better under the Nazis. We both would. I hate to admit it, but... a lot less people would be dead, too. All you'd have to do is convince them that gay isn't bad and Jews are okay in their little ghettos or whatever, and boom, world peace.”

“Of a sort,” you point out. He shrugs.

“Nazis never went around forcing people to recite a book at gunpoint.”

“Muslims only turned after spending a decade or more being persecuted just for their beliefs.”

“Let's just agree racism in any form is bad.”

“I'll cede to that,” you agree, deciding it's better to agree than not. You have to cross the plaza to get back to your workstation, and you aren't very familiar with most of the restaurant staff, so none of them can act as your escort.

_At least, in a Nazi state, you would be allowed outside alone._

You push the thought away. They'd probably find some other right to take from you. They're Nazis, after all.

You find yourself going over the plans, despite your dislike of them. As much as you trust the others, you're convinced there's something they've missed, some sort of unseen factor. You bring up every minute hole you find with Hendricks and Bethany, who slowly tire of your acute perceptiveness.

“This is the final plan!” Hendricks says finally, slamming his hands on the table and glaring at you, “Is that quite alright with you, little princess? Or would you rather we risk wasting our single opportunity on something else? Really, Australia was only bombed a couple of times so I don't understand why you're so concerned with this option – you, of all of us, have the _least_ to lose!”

“Australia was as involved in the fight as everyone else!” You snap, “Just because our land position protected our civilisation doesn't mean we weren't involved! My people were killed in that war as well!”

“Can we just, like--”

“Oh! Yes, mademoiselle! Of course, your family was placed in internment camps and your ancestors murdered heartlessly in the streets as your nation was invaded! How _could_ I have forgotten!”

“Guys, we shouldn't be--”

“So _sue_ me for having a conscience, Hendricks, but I'm not eager to advocate the murder of twenty million people, maybe even more, for the sake of a _maybe_!”

“ _Guys_!” Matt launches himself between the pair of you, holding a hand up to each of you to make you stop. You realise your hands are balled into fists, ready to start swinging, and Hendricks is poised on the balls of his feet, as if ready to launch himself at you.

“We shouldn't be fighting like this,” Matt insists, looking between the pair of you, “Nicola, I know, this is difficult, but you know I'll do everything I can to make sure it's successful. Hendricks, can you really blame her? Our generation was raised believing that _nothing_ good came from Germany, and she's from a place that's more removed from the locale of the events than any of us. She wouldn't have been exposed to the thinking of an alternative--”

Hendricks stops, tilting his head as though listening, and he hastily gestures for Matt to shut up. The second Matt cuts himself off, you can hear it. A high-pitched, electric whine.

The sound of metal cutting into metal follows.

The lights cut immediately, but you're already moving. This isn't the first time you've been raided, but the last two times, there was twelve of you and you had more than two minutes' warning.

You trail a hand along the wall as you follow Matt's hurried footsteps. Hendricks has already pushed the door closed silently, and has a torch. He tosses it to you, and you catch it easily in one hand, swinging the beam around to the wall where Matt is already setting a heavy pinboard on the ground. Behind it is a steel door, designed like that of a safe, but you know it is much more than that.

“Hurry,” Hendricks says in a hushed voice. A resounding clang of metal hitting the ground is heard from upstairs. Matt heaves the safe door open. Hendricks grabs his shoulder quickly, a hand dipping into his pocket before he presses something into Matt's palm.

“Keep it safe,” he tells you both, “Only go when you are ready. One small mistake could be catastrophic. Godspeed, my friends.”

“You're coming with us, right?” You hear yourself saying, the pit of your stomach dropping as you realise what he's saying. He gives you a sad smile. In that second, you wish you could take back every insult, joking or not, that you ever hurled at this man.

“Someone has to lock the door and hang the board. Go.”

Matt isn't waiting around for clarification – he's already in the tunnel behind the door, and he pulls you in after him. Hendricks shuts the heavy door the second your feet have cleared the frame, and you hear the locking mechanism fall into place.

“We'll wait here for a few seconds,” Matt says breathlessly, his mouth right beside your ear. The heavy door is almost soundproof, but you can still hear faint shouting from the other side.

Matt tugs you back with him, away from the door.

More shouting.

“We need to get moving.”

The shouting gets louder and more demanding.

You've heard gunshots before, seen how the bullets tear through flesh like nothing, so it's easy for you to imagine this as the shot sounds from the other side of the door.

Where most people would be startled into shock, the sound seems to cut through the numbness. You start moving almost immediately, trying not to think of what that bullet has already buried itself into.

The tunnel ends at a ceiling hatch, and Matt spins the flywheel on this to unlock it. He pushes against it with his back, forcing the hatch open, and holds it while you climb out of the hole. He follows, tearing the flywheel out of its place on the underside and closing the heavy steel lid. There's a slot on the topside, and he fits the flywheel into this, spinning it to lock it in place.

You both stop for a moment, staring at each other as you catch your breath. A sound makes you both whirl around suddenly, you pointing the flashlight like a weapon.

“Kayli--”

A hand clamps over your mouth, and you utter a small squeak, but the size of the hand is enough to allay any fears of who might be holding you.

“Whispers only,” Stannich says softly, “They may have listening devices.”

“Where's Bethany and Kizaki?” Matt breathes.

“Bethany covered us. Kizaki and Pretorius went topside. Rodriguez--”

Kayli sobs softly.

“He met them outside the door.”

You exchange a look with Matt, who looks crestfallen.

“Hendricks locked us in,” he says after a few moments, before withdrawing his hand from his pocket, fingers uncurling. “But he gave me this before he did.”

The pod is small, metallic grey, and a single line runs around the center, dividing it into two sections. You all stare at it for a few moments, the weight of its presence almost suffocating. Hendricks' final words to you make sense now.

“Are you ready?” Stannich asks Matt, whose eyes widen.

“What? Right now?”

“He's right,” Kayli says softly, “We are being raided and they've already killed at least two of us. They won't stop until they find a body for every vacant seat at that table.”

“It's now or never,” You agree reluctantly. “Matt, you can do this. We believe in you.”

You're cut off by a pounding on one of the three hatches that leads into the room. Everyone freezes, staring in horror at the hatch, waiting for the right sequence of knocking.

Two more knocks, sharp and clear.

Then a third.

A pause, then a fourth.

You all look at each other, but Kayli is closest, and she grabs the flywheel.

“No, stop!” You hiss, throwing yourself at her and grabbing her hands. She stares at you.

“But--”

“The pause was too long,” you hiss at her, “Two beats between three and four. There was four beats.”

“What if they're hurt?”

“They would want us to survive,” Stannich says softly, “Leave it closed. Matthew, prepare the device. You will now go. Girls, tear your clothing and cry. You are victims.”

You look first at Stannich, then at Matt, while Kayli catches on to the Russian's twisted English. She tears her pale blue hijab away from her collar, and hurriedly tears at the woollen fabric of her gown. You stare at Stannich.

“If you're accused, you'll be--”

“Is only way,” Stannich replies. Seemingly from nowhere, he presents a gun, “Mess yourself up. I will hit you if it makes you look more helpless.”

You look at Matt, who is still standing. Kayli has already used her hijab to twist her hands into a bound position behind her back, and she looks at you in terror, hoping you'll copy her. You shake your head.

“No! I'm not gonna lay down and pretend to play victim just so they don't put a bullet in my head!” You snap, taking a stance.

You faintly register the sound of a beep, and then an explosion rents the air apart. You're thrown forward, Matt colliding with you, and you see Stannich whirl around to face the threat emerging from the third hole in the room.

“The pod!” Matt cries, and you see his hands are empty. You spin, torchlight sweeping across the floor and landing on a shadow. Matt scrambles to scoop it up, but no sooner have his fingers closed around it than a second explosion cuts through the room, this time from the second hatch, right beside you. The muzzle flashes give away the gunfire you should be hearing, but all you are aware of is a ringing in your ears.

Matt drags you away from the new threat emerging from beside you, and you feel his hands pressing something into yours as the cold metal of a gun touches the side of your head. You stare up at the men that have invaded the sanctuary, who have their guns pointed at Matt as his other arm circles around your throat.

“I'll shoot her before you even try,” he snarls, voice right beside you. Fuck. He's a good actor. You keep your hands behind your back, as though bound, praying they buy his bluff. That's when you realise he's slipped something into your back pocket. It's oddly pod-shaped, but--

He shoves you away from him, away from human contact, as a shrill beep cuts through the air. You roll across the floor as the men open fire. There's a bright flash and a splitting pain that cuts through your head.

The last thought you have is one of surprise – being shot dead shouldn't hurt this much.

 


	3. Drei

Your stomach lurches, and you catch yourself on the wall again, hurling up what's left of the lunch you split with Kizaki. Your head is spinning, and you've barely managed three shaky steps after dragging yourself to your feet. After three years of Chicago air, the change in atmosphere is noticeable – untainted, almost fresh as home. The only difference is that it lacks the heat.

You slump to the ground again, somehow avoiding the second pile of vomit you've expelled onto the stones of the alleyway. You press your feverishly hot forehead against the cold, grey brick of the wall you're leaning against, grateful, for once, that the gown worn by white Muslim women is made of a synthetic wool fibre.

Before he grabbed you, Matt had hiked up your gown, slipping the opened pod into your back pocket. You hadn't even noticed until you had realised his ploy to take you hostage. But he had thrown you away at the last second, severing that human contact that would have brought him along.

The world had spun around you in a blur, and for what felt like hours, you had been trapped in a whirlwind, history howling past your ears, stomach churning.

The stop, when it had finally come, had been too sudden. You'd fallen to the ground, stomach ejecting some of its contents onto the cobbled stone. A small puddle of water had served as something to wash your fouled hands in, but you still felt disgustingly gross, feverish even. For a brief moment, you feel panic grip your heart – what if you brought back some sort of disease? Bacteria in your time is strong enough to wipe out most of the population in this era.

But no. You're almost certain this shaky feverishness you feel is just the after-effects of temporal displacement, or some sciencey bullshit like that.

You feel faint, and don't even move as something seems to roll past the end of the alley you've claimed as your resting place. Despite the weariness in your body, your senses are on fire. You're almost certain you could hear the wings of a mosquito if there were any about. The smell of cooking meat assaults your senses, and the cries of help from someone in the distance cut through the air.

The human calls are cut off abruptly, and you sit, crumpled against the wall, as a car engine starts somewhere. Can't they try to be less noisy? You press your forehead against the brick again, letting the cold cut through the fever. It feels good against the sweat that has built up on your skin, honestly.

You're not sure how long you stay like this, but a pair of voices passes nearby, muted at first and then crystal clear. You lift your head, looking at the end of the alleyway, and see two women, only a few years older than you, walking together.

You need to know where you are, if it worked. If you're right, it should be 1935. The temperature tells you it's either mid-autumn or early spring, and the darkness of the sky tells you it's dusk. Silently, you thank you grade five teacher for the basic survival skills that tell you time of year and day.

At your jerking movements, the women turn, their conversation halted as they see you. You clutch at the wall for support, but something is horribly wrong. Nevertheless, you try to croak out a greeting, putting on a brave face and offering a friendly smile. You've spent five years in customer service; you know how to fake a smile.

“ _Guten abend_!” You call, your voice hoarse. You realise your throat is drier than the Simpson Desert, and your head spins again. You're only faintly aware of your knees giving out before you hit the ground again.

Hurried voices converse in German above you, and you catch the word “ _betrunken_ ” said a few times, the German word for drunk. Forcing back the nausea that grips you again, you force yourself to sit up.

“ _Nein Deutsche_ ,” you tell them groggily, and they stare at you. You struggle to remember the right words, but your brain has become a foggy mess. “ _Kannst du gut Englisch_?”

No German. Can you speak English?

The two women leaning over you are brunette, one with blue eyes clear as a day sky and the other with eyes of a dark brown. They exchange a worried glance, before the blue-eyed one nods slowly.

“I speak English. I think... not good.”

You smile at her gratefully. “Anything works. I don't speak a lot of German.”

She nods slowly, before gesturing at the alleyway, “What happen?”

Her accent turns the W sound into a V, but at least you can understand each other.

“Took a trip,” you say simply, “I got sick.”

“Ah... _auto-krankheit_? Er, car... illness?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” It's the closest thing to an explanation. She relays this information to the brown-eyed girl, who is watching you warily. They discuss something between themselves.

“You are British, _nein_? Bad place to be for British. You come with us.”

“Australian,” you correct her as she struggles to help you to your feet.

“Close enough.”

You want to object, but decide it's best not to get into a political argument with the only person who seems willing to help you. The sting of calling Australia even remotely similar to Britain, however, buries in your chest.

“Why is girl alone in alley after journey? Where you live?”

Ah. These are harder questions to answer.

“I was...” you think carefully, “I was travelling from home, far from home. The people I was travelling with... they got hurt. Just me now,”

Blue Eyes makes a sympathetic noise as she and her friend – sister? They look similar enough – support you on either side. You realise you're still wearing your hijab and gown, and wonder what you must look like to them. They'll probably get even more of a shock if you were to take it off and reveal your shorts and singlet top.

“I'm sorry to be a problem,” you tell Blue Eyes, who waves a hand.

“We help. Young girl all alone, foreign, not safe from men or Gestapo. You be lucky if they only deport you.”

Gestapo... You wrack your brain trying to recall. No, they were formed in 1933. You're probably still on track – but if they're deporting foreigners, then it's definitely well and truly into Hitler's regime.

“You will be safe. Our guest. There is empty... home, where you can be.”

“How about a hot bath?” You're only half joking, but Blue Eyes nods.

“Big bath. Nazis have not taken hot water yet.”

You look at her, the bitterness in her tone telling you she has reason to hate the Nazis already. But... why? Shouldn't most people be indoctrinated with Nazi faith by this point? You look for any sort of marking on her, to indicate she's Jewish, but nothing.

Your trio pauses outside a tall iron gate, and Blue Eyes fiddles with a set of keys. She unlocks the gate, while her larger friend helps you through. Being upright seems to be helping, but you still feel uncoordinated as you're half-carried up a short garden path.

“Only unmarried women live here,” Blue Eyes tells you as she unlocks the door, “Only men from the _polizei_ are allowed to enter without being signed into the register. This is for the ladies' safety. _Frau_ across from us recently passed but we could not find relatives, and she had payed long in advance. You may stay there for now, clean self and rest. Must be gone by morning, though.”

You nod numbly in understanding. You can't help but feel eyes on your back as Brown Eyes helps you inside and closes the door.

You struggle your way to the second floor, with the women helping you, and Blue Eyes uses her all-powerful keys to unlock the door on the right of the landing.

“Gisela and I live there,” she points to the door on the left, “If you need anything, just knock. We often stay up late. The gas should still work, and there is still furniture to be used.”

The girl supporting you, Gisela, says something in German to her friend. You hear the word _polizei_ , and feel your new friend's fear as she says it.

“If she said we need an alibi,” you say carefully, “Then she's right. Why would you suddenly decide to help a random stranger?”

Blue Eyes looks from you to Gisela, who seems to understand that you've said something to support her statement. Blue then gestures to the apartment she's already said is yours.

“Come inside, then. We will not discuss out here.”

_On the street below, a black-clad figure sees the light flick on in one of the apartments, as the three shadows move from one of the central windows. The male begins to move, but a hand clamps onto his shoulder._

“ _Herr?” He asks, shooting a wary look at the second figure beside him._

“ _Warten,” the second male says. “Sie werden sich trennen. Wir bewegen uns dann.”_

“This idea is... mad.” Ursula, the blue-eyed beauty, tells you as you use the robe to dry out your hair. You have to admit, taking a quick bath has made you feel a lot better, and the coffee Gisela offered you has really helped to wake you up properly.

By pure coincidence, you share the same surname as the woman who used to rent the apartment. By even further coincidence, she was a widow, abandoned by her husband when he took their young daughter in 1919. You've already fabricated a cover story that should work if anybody questions your sudden arrival and foreign origin. Ursula is less approving of the lie than Gisela, you've found.

“All you need to say is I showed up looking for my mother, Edith Atkins, and you knew the name. If anybody gets in trouble for anything, it'll be me,” _Not that it'll be super bad trouble,_ you add silently to yourself. At least, you hope it won't be. Berlin 1935, there'd be a lot of foreigners flocking into town for the Olympics or whatever.

“I cannot lie to police,” Ursula insists, “I will break before they even ask me questions.”

“You'll be fine, Ursula. Please,” you place a hand on her arm, “I swear on my life, if they figure it out then I'll take the fall. I'll say I threatened you, I don't know, I'll figure something out.”

“You don't even speak German! How can you convince them if you do not _sprechen du Deutsche_?” She slips back into her native tongue, before collecting herself. Gisela appears at her end of the lounge and hugs her, saying something in German. Her words sound gentle, soothing, and Ursula, who appeared to be on the verge of a mental breakdown, calms quickly.

Gisela turns to you, eyes narrowing. “You... “ _take fall_ ” - this means blame, _ja_?”

You nod. “I'll take the blame for everything, if they figure it out.”

Gisela nods slowly. “Ursula... rest. I answer door.”

She says something to Ursula, who exhales heavily before relaxing, nodding in agreement. They both stand up.

“You told me Edith was mother. Your name Nicola Atkins, same as Edith. I think same family, let you into apartment – but tell you to leave in few days. Until then, you are guest.”

“Absolutely,” you nod, standing up. “Thank you, Ursula. I don't know if I'll ever be able to thank you enough.”

“Perhaps thank me by not getting us killed, _ja_?”

_In the street, the trio watch as shadows move from one window to another, then to another. The light in the right windows comes on._

“ _Jetzt,” one of the men says. They move almost silently across the street, ignoring the lone male that cringes away from them. After all, when Gestapo are moving, any smart person moves in the opposite direction._

You've found wood stacked in a wood box beside the small fireplace, and you're already trying to start a small fire. It's difficult, because you're used to pouring kerosene onto wood before trying to set it alight.

First night: sorted.

You settle back on the lounge, wondering exactly what you'll have to do tomorrow. You're purposely trying to _not_ think about what happened to the others. You've gotten very good at blocking those sorts of thoughts out. Instead, you busy yourself with tidying the place and hanging the damp robe over a gate in front of the fire. You hesitate with the hijab – you don't think you'll be needing it again for the intended purpose, but it might serve well as a scarf.

That's when you realise you'll have to get money somehow. Single, foreign woman in Nazi Germany. What could you possibly do for work? The answer flits to your mind, but you decide to exhaust all avenues before trying _that_.

There's a heavy knocking at the door, and you hesitate in your mindless actions of tidying. Gisela said she'd bring by a little food once Ursula was settled, but that was pretty damn quick for someone to fall asleep.

You cross to the door and open it, and try not to let the surprise show on your face.

“ _Guten abend_ ,” one of the three men says, gesturing. “ _Können wir reinkommen_?”

The hand gesture gives his request away. You take in the trio's uniforms – crisp black, silver buttons and leather belts. The red Swastika armband adorns their left arms, and their hats display the very last insignia you wanted to see – the _totenkopf_ , the Nazi skull and crossbones adopted from pirate flags.

Schutzstaffel. Specifically, Gestapo.

You plaster your best, most accommodating customer service smile across your features, and pull the door open wider, allowing the three men into the small apartment. The request is a courtesy; compliance is mandatory. Before closing the door, you see Gisele gazing at you from across the hall, face stricken with terror. You give her your best reassuring smile before closing the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to correct me on any incorrect German phrases. In Nicola's case, it is understandable that her initial German will be stuttered and nonsensical, but please let me know if I mess up anything from German characters. It doesn't make sense if they can't speak their own language properly, after all.


	4. Vier

Your palms are sweaty. Knees, weak; arms are heavy.

You try to ignore the relevance of goddamn Eminem in Nazi Germany, and offer a friendly smile to the three Gestapo that stand in the small living room of the apartment.

“I don't speak much German,” you tell them apologetically, gesturing for them to take a seat. All three of them have that devastatingly handsome golden ratio thing going on, with blue eyes that spear you from across the room. You bet that if you pulled off their caps, they'd all have blonde hair as well, and you know immediately that Matt would take you up on that bet just because he can. “Er... _nein Deutsche. Kannst du gut Englisch?”_

You try not to show your fear as two of them reach for the pistols strapped to their hips, but the taller of the three arches an eyebrow.

“You are fortunate; I speak English fluently,” he tells you. You allow yourself to show relief at this.

“I'm sorry. I'm only staying briefly, and didn't think to pay attention in school. I realise that was an error on my part. My apologies, officer.”

The English speaker looks at the other two, giving them a curt nod before he turns back to you. Both of them glare at you carefully, before moving for the door.

“My companions will be questioning others within the building,” he explains as they pass you. “I am sure you will not protest to a one-on-one interview?”

“Of course not,” you smile again, but it feels a little weak. You gesture again. “Would you like a seat? Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Ladies first,”

“I'm sure you spend all day on your feet, officer,” you retort without thinking, but quickly fish for a way to rescue your slightly barbed comment. “Where I am from, men work harder than women. Therefore, men may take seats first.”

“Barbaric, if you ask me,” he says, thick German accent lilting his words lightly. He gestures once again. “Please. It is not my home to be made comfortable in. Have a seat.”

It isn't a request. You've been around too many trigger-happy racists to not notice the hint of a threat laying beneath the polite words. You approach the lounge and settle at one end, keeping your eyes away from his piercing blue glare. You can feel his eyes on you, and that's more than enough in your opinion.

“What is your name?”

“Nicola Atkins,” you reply honestly, looking up to meet his gaze. “I'm from Australia – not Britain. Calling me British is an insult,” you add softly. You see his stern expression relax slightly, for the briefest of moments, before sitting up straight again. “I came to Berlin searching for my mother. She lived here,” you gesture to the apartment, “But upon meeting her landlady, I learned she had passed in recent months. I... I am sad to say that I never knew her. My father took me from Germany when I was an infant.”

The officer is watching you carefully, and you bet your own arse that you're putting on an Oscar-winning performance for him. But he doesn't seem extremely impressed.

“What was your mother's name?”

“Edith Atkins.”

“And why did you need support when entering this complex?”

Shit. So you weren't being paranoid – he's been watching you... since when? You pray he didn't follow you from the alleyway.

“I was unwell,” you lie, “The people I had been travelling with, they... hit me over the head and threw me into an alleyway. It was sheer coincidence that the landlady of my late mother was the one to find me. If there is a Lord, he looked over me tonight and gave me his blessing.”

His face darkens at that, and you swear internally. Nazis – did they believe in God? You're not so sure anymore. Of course, you've never been standing (sitting) face-to-face with an honest-to-god legitimate Nazi before.

He looks away from you, spotting the robe and hijab hanging by the fire. He looks at you.

“You are Muslim?”

“No, sir; I wore those for my own safety. I am an unmarried woman travelling alone in a foreign country; masking my youth and femininity works to my advantage.”

He eyes the garb for a moment, before nodding once, almost to himself. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“The landlady only gave me a few days,” you lie smoothly, gesturing at the room around you, “I'll have to sell much of the furniture. I was left without a mark when I was abandoned, you see. Otherwise, I would simply give it away.” You try to look as regretful about this as possible, “But I'm not certain of the furniture's value, so I'll have to find someone to value it.”

“The only people who would value your mother's furniture are Jews,” he tells you, “Trade with them is... not advisable.”

You manage to fake a look of repulsion at his comment. “Well then, I'll just have to value it myself, I suppose. I'd rather be markless than do trade with a Jew.”

A slight hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. He approves of your racism, and you feel sickened to the core.

“I assure you, officer, unless I am permitted to stay longer, I do not intend to remain in Germany more than a week.”

He fixes you with that piercing glare again, and you manage your most sympathetic smile at him. In any other setting, you would be staring at the various insignia decorating his uniform, the swastikas worn proudly on his chest, arm, and hat. Stannich was right; the uniform _is_ impressive – but it doesn't do anything to allay the icy talons of fear that are starting to encroach on your chest.

“I presume you lost your papers during this time, when you were assaulted and robbed, no?” He asks. You lower your gaze and nod meekly.

“I had intended to rest for tonight, and try to sort that out tomorrow,” you lie. He pulls a small notepad out of his pocket and a pencil, flipping to a fresh page.

“I will have them arranged for you immediately. Tell me the following: name, date of birth, country of origin – that is, where you are from – and your occupation.”

Oh shit. You force yourself to look relieved and grateful at the same time – if he sorts out your papers, you might be safe for a few days longer than you might have been originally.

“Nicola Gisele Atkins, Nicola spelled with a C not a K. I was born ninth September...”

His eyes flick up to meet you as you hesitate, spearing you with his intense glare. You manage a weak smile.

“My old papers said 1914, but my father said they were incorrect. I am not sure when I was born, only what day.”

He lifts his chin to glare at you. “For someone aged twenty-five, you look surprisingly young.”

You play the bashful beauty, while doing the maths in your head. 1914, twenty-five--

“It's 1938?” You demand suddenly, shock breaking through the carefully-constructed barriers you've had laid out for the entire conversation.

This is the break he's apparently been waiting for. You see his hand move, hear a click, and you're facing down the barrel of a gun. Your survival instincts go into overdrive, locating potential exit points and taking stock of current weapons at hand.

“Off the lounge. Would be a shame to dirty it with blood of a mutt.”

Your heart is racing as you keep your eyes trained on the gun, slowly rising from your seat on the lounge. He gestures, and you back up against the wall. Your heart is in your mouth by this point, and you take a moment to look past the gun in your face, to the face of the man holding it.

“It was evident to me you were lying,” he tells you, “I knew Edith well. Her husband died shortly after moving to Britain, her daughter caught illness and also died. She told no one of this, only that she could not contact them. Now, the truth: Who are you?”

“I didn't lie about that,” you tell him breathlessly. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You don't know handguns, but you think that lever is the safety, and he's already flicked it off. You're probably seconds away from paiting the wall behind you red. Your breath catches on a lump in your throat. “My name is Nicola Atkins. The women who helped me here told me of this apartment belonging to an Edith Atkins, and I told them she was my mother. All I wanted was a place to rest. Please,”

Your breathing is shaky, and you feel your eyes burning, but you don't want to cry. You don't want to dissemble in front of this enemy. You've made it to Germany, you've made the journey back in time, and now you can either return home without changing anything, or you can try to carry out the dying orders of your comrades.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one. I was born ninth September, 2002.”

That makes him falter for a moment, but the maths doesn't add up.

“You mean 1902,”

“No,” you shake your head, looking him dead in the eye, “Please. You can't tell the others, but... I was born in 2002. I'm... from the future.”

You're too busy cringing off the face of the earth at the cliched statement you've just uttered to even notice he's lowered the pistol.

“The future?”

You nod, letting tears spill. “I lied, because the lie was more b-believable th-than the truth.”

He is staring at you coldly, as if trying to figure out what you are. You hang your head in defeat, trying to hold back the sobs that are forcing themselves from your body. You didn't even make an impact, and now... now you either have to give up and bail, or let some Nazi kill you.

_All of the brave men are dead._

Stannich's favourite proverb crosses your mind, drawing a loud, gasping sob from your lips, but you make an effort to force yourself to stop crying and look up.

The Nazi is glaring at you, still trying to figure out what you are. He glances at the door.

“Let us say that I believe you are from the future,” he says, “Why are you here, now?”

You're tempted to lie, but an idea strikes you. You swallow nervously, meeting his gaze.

“What year did you say it was?” You ask him, “It's important. I thought it was 1935, but...”

“It is October twenty-sixth, 1938.”

October 26. Okay. You can work with this. You straighten yourself and meet his gaze.

“Next year, war will begin. It will last until 1945, and will have the highest death toll of all wars to date. Germany will lose this war.”

He raises the pistol again, as if on reflex at being accused of failure. You exhale softly.

“I'm here to try and help the Nazis win.”

His eyes narrow coldly at this claim, and the pistol doesn't move. “Why?”

 _Because I somehow got lumped with the task of being the emissary of death to twenty million Jews._ “Because if they lose, the lessons of the war will be forgotten within the next fifty years. Racial prejudice will cause another war, one with an even higher death toll in its first three years.”

He doesn't know whether to believe you or not, and you see him flick the safety off for the pistol again. You feel the tightness in your chest as he closes the space between you, digging the tip of the barrel under your chin and forcing you to look up. Your eyes are burning, and you're revisited with the image of bullets passing through soft flesh.

“Why should I believe you?” He asks, his voice lower, softer. You've closed your eyes to try and hide the tears that are threatening to spill over again, but you're on the verge of breaking and this Nazi has a gun pressed into your lower jaw and is blocking your movements.

“Please,” you whisper, begging him, “Please. If you don't believe me then just... just let me go, and I'll go back. Please don't kill me.”

You're fully crying now, and your knees are feeling weak. You want to crumple to the floor at his feet, but something in you tells you that would only make it worse. You raise a hand, grabbing onto his shoulder in an attempt to stop yourself from falling. You don't realise that this is a mistake.

Your hand is seized in a crushing grip as the gun digs into your jugular, and you whimper. He's in front of you, yet everywhere, and you can't tear your teary gaze away from his eyes.

“You do not ever lay hands on an SS without direct permission,” he snarls softly, “I should kill you right now for this--”

The door opens, and one of the officers calls out.

“ _Dietrich_!”

Your position is hidden by a tiny section of wall that sticks out, so the officers don't immediately see their comrade pinning you to the wall, gun digging into your neck, one gloved hand crushing your hand. He calls out a command, not moving, not even looking away from you. The others respond briefly in German, and he grunts. He glares at you for a few more moments, before lowering the gun.

“The other woman cleared your story,” he says, “Exactly as you said. I will give you a brief extension on your life for now – but I will return. You are not to leave this apartment – is that clear?”

You nod emphatically, closing your eyes in relief. “Thank you,” you whisper, “Thank you. _Danke_. I'll be here. I'll tell you everything, I swear. You might not believe it, but I'll tell you.”

Your voice is barely a whisper as he tucks his gun away, but his hand is still crushing yours. Without warning, he pulls you out from behind the wall, in front of the other two officers, who look at her with mild confusion.

He says something to them in German, and one of them scoffs, replying while the other nods. He fixes you with a fierce look.

“They both think that for laying a hand on me, you should be shot. You are a fortunate girl, _frau_ Nicola Atkins.”

He releases your hand, and you almost collapse without the psuedo-support. Subconsciously, you rub your hand, half-crushed in his grip, as he turns for the door.

He spins suddenly, striking you across the left arm with a riding crop that has appeared in his hand. You wince at the sharp sting, but apparently he isn't appeased by this, narrowing his gaze at you.

“Would you like me to hit you harder?”

Wordlessly, you roll up your right sleeve to reveal a blackened bruise covering most of your upper arm, with green and purple tinging the edges. One of the other officers scowls at the mark, but you can see the mild surprise visible on English speaker's face.

“With all due respect, officer, you're not the first to hit me with a crop. I learned not to show the pain with sound.”

His gaze slides from the bruise to your face, as if expecting to find a challenge, but you've already schooled your expression into one of meek submission. He hesitates, before nodding.

“Later,” he says simply, before turning and gesturing to the others. The trio departs swiftly, closing the door behind them, and you're left alone in the apartment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the Historical Inaccuracy: Gestapo are not reported to have carried riding crops (at least, not in any articles I can find), but given the use of batons in police operations, it is safe to assume that they carried some sort of blunt object with which to hit people. I'll continue trying to dig up research on the subject, though.


	5. Fünf

It takes exactly thirty-two seconds from the time the door closes to when you feel your legs give out, and you collapse, dry retching. You can still feel the cold steel of the gun digging into your jugular, the crushing grip on your hand.

Today has been... Traumatic, to say the least.

You drag yourself into the bathroom and splash your face with cold water. A quick check tells you the bathwater from earlier is still hot, and you hesitate for a moment, before pulling your clothing off and submerging yourself in the warm water again.

Your head is underwater, so you don't hear anybody enter the apartment, but you do hear a surprised exclamation and force your head up out of the water.

Ursula is speaking in rapid German, panicking, and you purposely stay low in the tub, trying to get her attention while also keeping yourself covered as best as you can.

“Ursula! I'm fine!”

She looks over at you, staring in fear, before falling to her knees and shuffling forward. You reach out to her, and she hesitantly reaches out, holding your warm hand between both of hers.

This is enough to convince her that you're not dead, apparently. She collapses onto the ground, and you're almost certain you hear her say _scheiße_ at least four times, and have to suppress a grin.

“What, did you think I drowned myself in the bath?” You tease lightly. She hears the tone of your voice more than your words, and looks up from the floor. She sees your grin, and stares at you for a moment as though you've gone mad, before she starts to laugh, almost hysterically. You join her quickly, and Gisela enters to find the pair of you laughing over apparently nothing. She frowns slightly, offering you a towel, and you accept it gratefully, quickly drying yourself and dressing while Ursula explains to Gisela.

“How amusing, to call the Orpo for a crime from the Gestapo,” Ursula laughs as you pull your shorts on, before settling on the edge of the bathtub. Her comment catches you off guard, and your smile fades.

“What do you mean?”

Gisela is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded as she unabashedly looks you up and down in your underwear. Ursula looks at you, and realises that you've been laughing at different jokes for the past five minutes.

“The Gestapo have killed people in their own homes before,” she explains, sobering quickly, “Sometimes, if they are kind, they make it appear like... self-killing.”

“Suicide,” you correct her. “You thought that was what happened to me?”

“What that?” Gisela asks, jerking her chin at your bruised arms. Ursula grimaces slightly.

“I was trying to be polite,” she tells you, “The bruising... What are they?”

You look at both girls, deciding that you may as well tell them the truth. “Where I'm from, women are expected to be... very submissive. I'm not very submissive. This is a few days old,” you explain, gesturing to the black bruise on your right arm.

“And the left? It looks new.”

“I kind of grabbed that officer, when I was, well,” there's no way to sugarcoat it, “He had a gun in my face. I grabbed onto him so I didn't collapse while crying.”

Ursula stares at you for a few moments, before relaying the story to Gisela, who gives you the same look.

“You are fortunate you were not killed!”

“That's what he said,” you tell them, “He hit me with a riding crop, though. Pretty hard, too. He was surprised when I didn't scream, though. Until I showed him this one,” you gesture to the black bruise. Ursula shakes her head as she translates for Gisela, before looking back at you, holding up your shirt.

“You are not like many women here, Nicola,” she tells you, as you pull the shirt over your head. You give her a winning grin.

“I try my best.”

You head out of the bathroom, settling in the armchair and leaving the two-seater lounge for the “sisters”. You've already noticed some of their touches and tones don't seem very sisterly, but you're discreet enough not to say anything about it.

“You never even told us the truth,” Ursula accuses you as you use the robe as a blanket, wrapping it around your legs. “We _are_ lying for you, after all.”

“I already covered you,” you tell her, waving a hand, “The officer that spoke to me, I told him that I lied to both of you. So long as you stick to the story we agreed on, you should be fine. What time is it?”

“A little after eight o'clock.”

“How long ago did they leave?”

The girls swap a glance, Ursula translating for Gisela, who answers.

“About thirty minutes ago,” Ursula relays, “What did the officers say to you?”

“One of them spoke English,” you explain, “So he was the one I spoke to. He...” you realise you can't go into too much detail with these girls, and sigh. “He told me I have to stay here, until he can sort out my papers and what to do with me. He said he'd be back, probably tonight.”

Both girls pale at this, and exchanged worried looks.

“They _never_ make second calls in a night,” Ursula explains, “Nicola, you have to leave!”

You have to admit, you've thought about it. Running, fleeing from this place. Let the Gestapo find you somewhere else. But then they'll never trust you. And the _kindly_ officer didn't suggest that he would have company when he returned.

But you could run. You could run, escape, find your way elsewhere. You don't even have to use the device again. You could just live out the rest of your life in an era sixty years before you were even born. The idea of fleeing, of travelling cross-country, escaping into the wilderness, it catches you in a moment of romanticism. But you shake it off.

_All of the brave men are dead._

They gave their lives so that you could be here. Whitefoot, Feliciano, Miguel, Hendricks, Bethany, Rodriguez, Stannich. Kizaki and Pretorius too, probably. Even Matt and Kayli, probably. You're the last man standing; every single one of them gave themselves, not just for their beliefs but for the survival of the future. For the cause.

You realise you're staring at the flames, and look down at the smooth, hard object you feel in your fingers. The device. Three radioactive isotopes that, combined with specific gases, can punch a hole in the space-time continuum and allow one person to slip between two points. You can see the part of the shell that is stained darker than the rest of the device. Blood. Feliciano's blood.

_They made the decision. They've all contributed. Except for you – all you did was complain and argue. They all gave their lives. What are you willing to give?_

Your hand closes around the pod.

“I can't leave,” you tell the girls. They've been watching you this whole time, as you silently brood on events so far in the distance, yet so recent. Events of your past, but the world's future. They probably don't understand. Or maybe they do.

“There's something I have to do,” you tell them, “Something I came here to do specifically. It means... It means I'm going to have to do things I don't like, become someone that I hate. But I owe it to some people. They gave their lives for me; so I have to be prepared to make that same sacrifice.”

Ursula looks at you, crestfallen, and she looks at Gisela. “We can help, yes?”

You shake your head. “Your whole “sisters” thing isn't too secret, I'm sorry to say,” you tell them, “Honestly? It's better that you leave Germany. It won't be safe for you here much longer.”

They look at each other, Ursula quickly translating for Gisela, who looks at you.

“You should go,” you tell them, “The Gestapo officer said he'd be back later. I don't know how much later, but... hanging around with me might be bad news, at least until I can figure out how to do this.”

Ursula nods slowly. “Well... If the Gestapo want you to stay here, then I suppose you must stay here. The apartment is paid for until March, so that is how long you have.”

“I'm sure I'll be able to find work by then,” you smile at her, “But... I need to learn German. Fast.”

“We help teach _Deutsche_ ,” Gisele says, “You keep us... secret. _Gut_ deal, _nein_?”

You nod, feeling a smile tug at the corner of your lips. “Good deal.”

Ursula looks faint, like someone else just signed her life over to the devil.

Gisela returns briefly after the pair have left, shoving a bundle of clothing at you and pressing a finger to her lips, before disappearing back into her apartment. You sort through the clothing in front of the fire, picking out a plain white blouse and long dark blue skirt that you find among the pile. The shirt is long-sleeved, and will cover the matching bruises on your arms with no trouble. A blanket is among the clothes, and you tuck this around yourself as you sit in one of the two armchairs, dragging it closer to the fire. Of course Germany has to be fucking cold, why are you even surprised about this?

You drift off into a good memory, of a day when the overseers allowed the girls to go swimming if they had an escort. Matt had the day off work, but happily got up early just to indulge you. He wasn't allowed in the water, of course, but you were still able to have fun. The man usually in charge of your station had been there, had almost reprimanded Matt when you had tugged his arm just hard enough and pulled him into the water.

You hadn't expected them to take it so seriously. But you were glad that he didn't open fire immediately.

Sharp rapping punctuates the dream, and for a moment you think your mind has twisted the memory, but no. You're still face to face with Matt, except now he looks frightened. Cornered rabbits. You feel your heart rate increasing, and you plead with him, begging him not to leave you. You don't want to be the one to do this. He's better suited.

Guns chattering as you're flung across the room, and your entire physical form is sent speeding faster than the speed of light, hurled back through a whirl or colour--

You catch your breath as your eyes open. Your eyes are on the fire, and you realise that someone has added a log to it, flames already licking at the soft bark. You turn your head and find yourself confronted by brilliantly blue eyes.

“I knocked. You did not answer.”

You exhale when you realise his gun is still holstered. Well, that's one step in the right direction. “Sorry; I must have dozed off. Do you want a coffee?”

“ _Nein_.”

Just no. Not a “no, thank you” or anything. Just a flat “no”. It highlights to you exactly where he places you on his personal ladder of prejudice.

You sit up straighter in your seat and gesture. He's perched on the edge of the low table between the two armchairs and the lounge, and you indicate the other armchair, or even the lounge. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Show me the bruise,”

You stare at him, before hesitantly beginning to roll up your sleeve.

“The other one.”

Oh.

You start to roll up your right sleeve, and he takes your arm, inspecting the mark closely. You purse your lips as he prods at it, frowning slightly.

“This is not from a single blow,” he says softly, looking at your face, which you realise is twisted into a pained grimace at his touches. His grip on the injured arm slackens slightly. “Who gave you this?”

“The overseers,” you reply honestly. He arches an eyebrow. “In my time, Muslims have taken over most of the US. Not, like, in general – mainly one group. Islamic State. They took it over in 2020. In one night, they... they killed thousands of people. Innocent people. Civilians. If you couldn't recite part of the Qu'ran, they would kill you on the spot. I was lucky.”

“You know the Muslim holy text?”

“Only the one passage,” you reply, “But it was enough to convince them. I was forced into a hijab and robe, and managed to avoid too much trouble for the next three years.”

“What does this have to do with you being here, now?” He asks. You notice that he's interested in the story, but you figure it's better to answer his questions rather than avoid them. The firelight is the only light in the room, and it casts a strange reddish glow over his eyes, blending with the colour to make them seem almost purple. They're sharp eyes, the kind that wouldn't miss a trick, and you find it a lot easier to appreciate them when he's not shoving a gun in your face.

“The Muslims didn't attack first,” you explain, “They were retaliating. There was a couple of smaller wars, the Gulf War and Iraq and Afghanistan, before all of this. And because of those wars, people hated Muslims. They chased them out of cities, deported them, kids were even being beaten just for having Arabic surnames in school. It got so bad that they eventually just... snapped. Fought back, and when they did it was... It was brutal, and bloody, and it's a miracle I even survived.

“I was part of a resistance group. Non-Muslims from different countries. It was a good little group,” you can't help but smile, “We argued and fought because of differences, but... at the end of the day, we were all we had. And we were all there for the same reason.”

“You are a woman, though,” he says softly, frowning, “Why were you exposed to this? Forced into war?”

You fix him with an even look, your inner feminist rising up and lacing your words with ice. “Muslims didn't care. They'd shoot me regardless of whether I was male or female.”

He meets your gaze evenly, and you find yourself locked in a staring competition with him. He doesn't even blink, just gestures for you to continue.

“Our team created a device,” you continue, “Small, inconspicuous, but powerful enough that it could, when activated, move faster than lightspeed. When you can move faster than the speed of light, you can move through time as well. Matt was meant to use it, to go back to 1935 and enlist in the Wehrmacht. From there, he was expected to work his way up, and influence some of the later turning points of the coming war, to ensure a Nazi victory.”

“Is this... “Matt”... is he German?”

“He could've faked it,” you lie, “Very easily. He was fluent in German, no trace of an accent. Blonde hair, blue eyes, everything Aryan that would have Himmler drooling on himself with obsession. All he had to do was influence Stalingrad. Divert attention from the city to the oil wells nearby, and it would have ensured a successful campaign. Of course,” you can't help but snort, “You have no idea what I'm talking about, because that won't happen for another three years or so.”

You turn your head to look at the fire, the dancing flames. You used to love fire, the warmth of it, the smoky smell that came from burning the right wood, the dancing of the light and flames and unpredictability of the shadows that chased themselves. You haven't found it as appealing in recent years, after seeing half a city burn.

You shake the thought, and realise the officer is watching you still. “I know, it sounds insane. But... That's the truth.

“It does not answer why you are here.”

You roll your eyes. “Don't you get it? The Muslims fighting back against the anti-Islam? That's what could have happened with the Jews, when you eventually attack them.”

“How so?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “The entire war was bred on racism, a level of racism that hasn't been seen since Nazis tried to wipe out the Jews. We have a word for it: genocide. When you try to eradicate all people of a specific race. That word didn't really have a use until after World War Two – which is the war that begins next year,” you explain. Here comes the hard part. “But you fail. You kill eleven million Jews, but that's a pittance. So... I came back to try and double it. Kill twenty million.”

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes fixed on your face before he eventually sighs and looks into the fire.

“You ally yourself with the Nazi cause?”

You want to kill yourself. “Yes.”

“But you do not approve of the values.”

He's not an idiot. “No, I don't.”

“Then why ally yourself with a cause you have no belief in?” He turns his gaze back to you, and you meet him evenly.

“Because I believe it will save my people in the future.”

You see him purse his lips, and he looks into the fire for another long moment.

“You say you are from the future, but I must wait a year to see this proof?” He asks. You hesitate, thumbing your pocket hesitantly.

“I can show you something right now,” you tell him, “Something that might help you believe.”

“Then show me.”

You slide it out of your pocket smoothly, and hold it up before pressing it into his hand.

“Be gentle with it,” you tell him, “It's the only photo I have of my friends.”

He stares at the slim rectangular object for a moment, confused, before pushing one of the buttons on the side. Instantly, a section of one side lights up, and he stares at it in visible surprise.

“It's called a mobile phone,” you explain, holding out your hand. He relinquishes the device to you, and you swiftly slide your finger over the lock pattern. The home screen appears, and you show him. “I'd make a call to a friend to show you, but cellular networks won't be developed for another fifty years or so,” you wave the phone, “But it does a lot more than just make calls.”

You've already opened the camera app, and tilt the phone at the right angle. It makes the shutter sound, and you turn the screen to show the officer. He stares at the screen, moving his head carefully.

“That is me.”

“Yeah.”

“In colour.”

“Mm-hm,”

“How?”

This question throws you off for a second. “Well, it has a camera in it,” you explain, “And when it takes the photo, instead of using rolls of negative, it just stores the picture in the phone. If I had a computer of the right kind, I could print it out for you.”

He seems less murderous now, and you realise that, at heart, he isn't just his uniform. He's also human – and a human being shown something that will likely be invented well after his death. He leans over, looking at the device, and you're seized by a sudden, insane idea.

“Lean closer,” you tell him, holding the phone up and changing to the front camera. Both of you appear in the screen, and you see the brief look of surprise on his face as he realises he is looking at himself.

“It is like a tiny mirror,”

“Sorta,” you glance at him. “Smile,”

He shoots you a suspicious look, before looking back at the phone and letting the corner of his lips lift ever so slightly. You take the selfie, and it saves the image to your gallery. You waste no time in opening it up to show him.

“What else does this... object do?” He asks, taking it from your hands delicately, like he's handling an egg. You settle in your chair.

“Lots of things. I can write stuff on it, draw, take photos, listen to music, look at pictures.”

“Is this your husband?”

He holds up the phone, displaying a picture of you and Matt taken at a night at work. You're both smiling, genuinely laughing, and he has his arm slung around your shoulders.

“That's Matt. The guy I was telling you about.”

He looks at the image again, inspecting it closely.

“He would have done well here,” he tells you, handing the phone back. You already know you agree with him.

 


	6. Sechs

“So, _Herr Gestapo_ ,” you say to him with a teasing lilt, much more comfortable in his presence now you think you've swayed him. “What do you think?”

“Dietrich,” he says, before catching your frown. “SS-Untersturmführer Nikolai Dietrich. If you want to avoid getting shot, refer to me in public as SS-Untersturmführer, or Untersturmführer Dietrich. In private, you may simply call me Dietrich.”

“Okay, _Untersturmführer_ ,” you tease him lightly, mimicking his intonation, before sobering. “What do you think my chances of survival are?”

He's back to his aloof attitude, and gives you a stony look. “I think the lie will be easier to tell. But, I am not entirely convinced.”

You groan. “Fine. What _would_ convince you?”

“You speak of war next year. Tell me about something that happens before that. If it comes to pass, I will have your papers written and we will tell people of the lost Atkins girl who returned home too late to see her mother.”

You think carefully for a few moments. “You said it was October twenty-sixth, right?”

“Yes.”

You wrack your memory for historical events within the next few days. You could tell him about Kristallnacht, but that's too far away. Then an idea strikes you, an idea too good to pass up. You just hope you remember your history class right.

“In two days' time,” you tell him, “There will be an event called the Polenaktion. Over ten thousand Polish Jews will be arrested and deported, but because of the Polish cancellation of citizenship, most of them won't be allowed back into Poland. They'll be stuck on the border.”

“Anyone with knowledge of current events could predict this.” he tells you.

“In France, there is a man named Herschel Grynszpan. He's probably being sought after by the authorities even now. His family are in Hanover, and he can't get back into Germany because his residency has expired. His sister, Berta, will send him a postcard from the town near where they will be forced to camp after being deported and refused entry to Poland. The postcard will reach him on November third.”

Dietrich glares at you. “You expect me to track down a postcard?”

“I'm just explaining something,” you tell him, “I'm trying to recount what I remember from the history studies we did.” You exhale, wracking your memory, “He'll steal money from his uncle, buy a gun, walk into the German embassy, and shoot Ernst vom Rath.”

You can see that you've got his attention now. He is watching you with his unblinking hawk gaze, but you meet him unflinchingly.

“Vom Rath will die from five bullets to the abdomen,” you continue, “He will die on the ninth of November, this year. The night and following day will become known as _Kristallnacht_. It is the first turning point for the Nazis.”

He watches you for a few more moments, but you can tell now that he is only staring while his mind works on digesting the information you've given him.

“You want to prevent vom Rath's death?”

You shake your head. “As much as I hate to say it, vom Rath needs to die. It will make Kristallnacht all the more righteous, at least in the minds of the Nazis.”

“You do not plan to change any of these events you have just stated?” You can see the slight confusion on his face, and shake your head.

“Everything will happen as it should. All I need to do is ensure the Nazi conquest of Soviet Russia is successful, or at least more successful.”

“Germany would never invade Russia. Their winters are too cold and their lands too treacherous.”

“Give it three years,” you give him a slight grin. “Germany will invade Russia. Hell, I'll even bet you fifty marks.”

“You could be dead within three years,” he replies, arching an eyebrow, “Make the bet closer to the date. We will first see if your current prediction is true. If you have knowledge of future events, it would make an unfair bet, don't you think?”

“Smart gambler,” you can't help but smirk, before looking down and picking at a small hole in the arm of the chair. You look up at him. “Dietrich, I... I need to be able to work. Can I do that without papers?”

He fixes you with the hawk glare. “Not legally. I suggest you avoid any illegal activities until your papers can be organised. I am not always patrolling, you understand.”

“Do Gestapo even patrol?” You ask, feeling bold, “I thought you just stood around looking intimidating.”

His eyes are narrowed, but there's a slight difference now, a slight change in tension. Maybe it's the fact that you're no longer shitting yourself, or maybe it's the fact he's so willing to accept your explanation.

“So, you intend to stay for several years?” He asks suddenly. Back to business. You nod slowly.

“I need to do this. For my friends, my future.” You want to hit yourself for sounding like one of those cliched inspirational film twats. “I'll admit, I'm not gonna like it. But... Everyone else has pulled their weight. Now, it's my turn.”

“You could simply task a man to do this on your behalf.”

It's your turn to fix him with an intense and uncomfortable glare. He doesn't even flinch as he meets your gaze, and you find yourself in another staredown. You're forced to break it, though, as you yawn widely, covering your mouth. You catch the hint of a smirk as he looks away.

“I will take my leave for the night,” he tells you, “But, I will return, to ensure you are still here. I suggest you do not stray too far from your new home, Nicola.”

You give him a grateful smile. “Thanks for, well, listening to me ramble. And for not killing me. That was probably the highlight of my day, y'know, not dying.”

He's already standing, and you drag yourself to your feet, walking him to the door. He pauses, eyeing the frame and the doorhandle, before giving you another hard look.

“Lock your door, Nicola.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You understand, also, that though we have an agreement in private, this agreement does not exist beyond these walls,” he adds, pausing with his hand on the doorhandle. You nod slowly, the comfort from his apparent open-mindedness dissipating.

“So... If I were to be out on the street and your officers question me...”

“I will not defend you,” he confirms, “If I am given the task of investigating you, I will do so according to my orders. My loyalty to the Reich comes before some odd girl with fanciful trinkets and a self-righteous manner.”

“That's understandable,” you admit, “But, like... try not to shoot me, okay?”

“Do not get caught. Then I will not have to shoot.”

He's out on the landing, starting down the stairs, and you start to close the door when he stops and turns back.

“Nicola! Learn some German, for God's sake.”

You relax against the door once you've closed it, and remember to turn the lock. You look at the mantel of the fireplace and spot a clock, which you can see says it's sometime close to ten-thirty.

And just like that, you're alone with your thoughts once again.

You switch into one of the heavier dresses and stir the fire, putting another log on it to slow burn, before curling up under the blanket on the lounge. You don't see any point in wasting the extra heat on the single bedroom when the lounge is comfortable enough, and you've already closed the door into the bathroom and the bedroom.

As you watch the flames, you mull over everything in your head. In the past twenty-four hours, you've checked people into hotel suites more expensive than you could afford to sneeze at, been involved in a resistance group planning the success of the Lebensraum, fled from Islamic State security into a dead end, and watched at least two of your friends get shot.

Then you time travelled to 1938 Berlin and were immediately questioned by Gestapo and had your life threatened more than twice.

You think that if you decided to check out for the night, God would be okay with that. Maybe you'll be fortunate enough to not have nightmares. You doubt it, though.

  
  


To passers-by, it was simply a building with ornate stained glass windows decorating the facade and front door. A sign on the door read _Schwarzer Falke_ in the large, gothic letters typical of most German signs, and beneath it, a smaller sign that read _nur für_ mitglieder. The stained glass door window depicted a black falcon, perched atop a familiar-looking skull and crossbones combination.

Inside, it had all the appearance of a regular bar, with comfortable seating and plenty of space for drinking, smoking, and conversational chatter. A girl laughed at the attentions she received from one of the many men in the bar, and the conversation was all fluent German.

The only difference between this and any other bar in Berlin, was the fact that every single male in there wore the black uniform of the SS.

Dietrich slammed the receiver into the cradle, irritation evident to those nearby, before stalking to the bar and reclaiming his beer.

“News from home, Dietrich?” One of the men raised a glass, “What did you learn on the telephone that has you so soured?”

Dietrich glanced at the other man. Gerhardt Schmidt was tall, handsome, and confident. He had no qualms with bullying not only people but also younger officers into doing his bidding, and he was good enough at his job, and a good enough Nazi, that he could get away with it most of the time.

“Someone gave me some information about a man,” Dietrich replied, “Herschel Grynszpan.”

“Sounds Jewish,” Schmidt remarked, “Does he need a little attention?”

“He's in France. Authorities are trying to track him down, but he is slippery.”

“Tell them to kill the family. He will reveal himself, sooner or later.”

“This is the French we are talking about,” Dietrich stated, “They still think Jews are human.”

“Oh, of course! But even they have to have their limits. If he's gotten their attention once, he will do so again. That's why we kill them immediately – saves us the second trip!”

Dietrich huffed, before taking a swig of his beer. “Do you think it is possible for someone to know of the future before it comes?”

Schmidt snorted heartily. “Did you arrest another gypsy, Dietrich? “Let me live and I'll read your palms”?” He chuckled, “Better to just put a bullet in their miserable heads, I think.”

“She is a normal girl. Story checks out and everything. She told me about Grynszpan, but she has never been to France.”

Schmidt tilted his head. “Are you _sure_ she's not Roma? Or perhaps she is lying. What did her papers say?”

Dietrich swilled the beer around in his glass, before taking another few mouthfuls. “She had none.”

“Then why haven't you deported her?”

“I am investigating her claim.” Dietrich admitted. Well, he was more trying to figure out how to give her a chance to stay – if not to carry out the plans she had laid out, then at least to help Germany develop marvels such as the one she had shown him. Of course, any sort of plan would only be hindered by the girl's lack of ability to speak German. Dietrich made a mental note to drop by her neighbour's apartment, to recommend they help the girl learn the speech at least.

“That's it? Just investigating?”

“She carries herself as a worker,” Dietrich explained, “And if her claims of parentage are true, she is German regardless of where she was raised. I'm investigating her parentage claims; she has been told she is not allowed to leave without permission.”

“Not like she can go anywhere, anyway,” Schmidt shrugged, finishing his beer and gesturing for another, “Without papers, she can't even leave the country. She'd be arrested at the border.”

“She knows this.”

“You're often too kind for your own good, Dietrich,” Schmidt told him, slapping him on the back, “But, if she is German and is willing to work hard, then perhaps your kindness will be beneficial in this instance. To what shall we toast?”

Dietrich finished his beer and accepted the one pushed his way by the attentive barman. He raised the glass.

“To peace,” he stated, “May any claims of future war be greatly exaggerated.”

“I'll drink to that!”

  
  


Cold, wintery sunlight streams in through the windows, waking you up. You check the fire first, and place another log on it, mentally taking note of the size of the log pile. There's a decent stack, but you guess you'll have to find your own at some point. Which also means you'll have to find an axe.

But first, you need to find something to eat.

Among the clothing Gisela gave you, you count one coat, three shirts, two skirts, and the blanket and dress you wore as a nightgown. Counting your robe, you have seven articles of clothing, and you know enough about hand washing to be able to reuse them. The most important issue with clothing is underwear, but whatever. It's not like you've never worn the same pair of undies two days in a row.

You're taking stock of the cupboards, looking through the longlife shelf foods, when you hear something slide under the door. Turning your attention from the packet of flour you've discovered tucked into a hole at the back of a low cupboard, you investigate to find two keys, with a note attached, written in a hurried scrawl. You realise, thankfully, that the note is in English.

_The black is for the garden gate and front door. Other is for apartment. Meet at 3:00 afternoon in garden for lessons. U._

You smile as you tuck the keys into a pocket. You had completely forgotten to ask about that, but at least one person is thinking ahead.

You run over the few German phrases you know in your head, but dismiss a few of them – you doubt anyone would agree to _lass uns betrinken_ , and w _o ist die nächste toilette_ will probably earn you a point in the wrong direction.

You have no money, no papers, and no language.

You're screwed.

_Are you gonna use the cards you're dealt to not do shit with them?_

You try to ignore the relevance of Eminem – yet again – and instead take the mental advice your internal rapper. You can pick up the language, especially if you immerse yourself in it. Money? You can figure something out for that. Maybe you can volunteer to do hard labour for something in return?

Papers are the only thing you really need, and you honestly have no idea how to go about getting those. You doubt you could just stroll into the embassy.

“ _Hi, yeah, I'm totally German but my papers got stolen.”_

“ _Sprechen du Deutsche?”_

“ _Nein, only enough to tell you I can't.”_

“ _Polizei!”_

Yeah, embassies are out of the question. Unless... You wonder if there's an Australian embassy you could go to, to at least get temporary papers. Something to say that you left Australia.

You decide it's worth a shot.

The sunlight is weak, but you're grateful for the coat Gisela gave you. It looks a little more masculine than what most of the women seem to be wearing, but you don't care; you've never believed in gendered clothing before, and you don't plan to start now.

“ _Wo ist die... Australisch..._ embassy?”

There's a small street market not far from the apartment, and you waste no time in immediately asking a couple of the stallholders. They give you blank stares for your efforts. One man seems close to understanding, but shakes his head and turns his back as soon as you try speaking to him in English – your accent must be intimidating.

Of all the times for people to be scared of Australians, this is not the best time.

You sigh heavily, moving out of the flow of traffic as you look around the area. Hawkers call out in German to passers-by, who smile and stop to converse, or nod politely while continuing along. The entire scene looks so... normal. You could be in a weird district of Melbourne for all you know. It looks so peaceful and _normal_ , and the people look happy and even friendly. It feels... _innocent_. A nation of people who don't know the approaching danger. Hell, even the pair of SS that you spot passing through the crowd look happy – or at least less frigid than you'd expect.

“Hey! _Halt_! _Dieb_!”

You hear the call from one of the nearby stalls, and see a teenager running, clutching something to his chest. The two SS wheel around, but you can already tell that they're too far away to catch the sprinter.

But you're not.

Without even thinking, you race after the youth, shoving people aside without any sort of regard for them. A cart blocks the thief, who skirts around it, but you take a running leap and clear the top of the cart. You catch a panicked glance thrown back at you, but once you're out of the markets area the people thin.

He turns one corner, then another, and you follow him, blind to everything but his figure. You don't need to be a mathematical genius to realise you're gaining on him, and he knows this, too.

A car pulls out of a side street, briefly blocking his path, and he's forced to slow as he dodges around the side of it. That's the falter you need – the slow in his pace makes him lose his momentum, but you haven't lost yours.

You crash into the youth, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him to the ground, quickly bringing a knee up to dig into his spine as you twist his arms up behind him. You half expected him to be bony and skinny, but lean muscle strains against your grip, trying to twist himself out of the pretzel you force him into. You're deaf to his shouts and curses, digging your knee into his spine. That's when you notice the yellow armband on his sleeve.

_You idiot,_ you curse silently. You don't need a history expert to tell you how this is going to turn out.

 


	7. Sieben

Thudding footsteps approach, and you glance back to see both of the SS from the marketplace racing towards you, guns drawn.

The youth takes advantage of your momentary lapse in attention, and heaves suddenly, throwing himself sideways. You tumble with him, and in the mess of human he somehow reverses the positions, digging his knee into your stomach as he brings first one then the other fist down, crashing into your jaw.

A gunshot cracks through the air, and a pair of gloved hands roughly grabs the youth's shoulders, dragging him away from you. You can taste blood on your lip, and there's two voices shouting in German, a third adding panicked cries. You push yourself up on your elbows to see one of the SS pinning the youth to the ground, gun against the back of his head. The other SS has his gun drawn, but notices you immediately and at a word from his colleague, tucks it away and offers you a hand.

“ _Geht es dir gut_?”

His tone is laced with concern, and he takes a cloth out of his pocket, offering it to you. You realise he means it for your lip, but you wave it away politely, using your finger to wipe away the beads of blood that are forming.

“ _Nein Deutsche. Sprechen Englisch,_ ” you tell him, and surprise briefly crosses his expression, but he claps you on the shoulder, nodding.

“Good... job,” he tells you, thick accent distorting the words. “You... well?”

You nod emphatically, trying to ignore the demanding stream of German coming from the other SS. He barks an order, and his colleague barely has time to look at him before another gunshot goes off.

Unfortunately for you, you see the whole bloody mess.

Your new friend suddenly turns to you, as if expecting you to faint, but you're just staring at the body of the boy you helped them hunt down. _You_ helped them. If you hadn't interfered, he might still be alive. Thieving and risking his hide, but still alive.

You didn't even know his name.

“ _Es tut mir leid, dass du das sehen musstest._ ” The other officer is standing up, tucking his pistol away, and seems to have realised you just watched him put a hole the size of Kansas in some Jewish teenager's head.

“ _Sie spricht kein Deutsch_ ,” the other one says, “ _Nur Englisch_.”

The other officer gives you a hard stare, before holding out his hand.

“Papers,” he says, tone suddenly hard and authoritative. Fuck.

You shake your head slowly, lowering your gaze. You pat your pockets, as if to explain, and the two officers look at each other, exchanging some words in German.

“Where you from?” The friendlier officer asks.

“ _Ich komme aus Australien_.”

“ _Australien_?” The taller of the two still has the teenager's blood spatters on his coat, spots slightly darker than the rest of the coat, but you bet they'll be laundered out by tomorrow. He says something else to you, lips curling into a dangerous smile. You look from him to the friendlier officer.

“I was looking for the embassy,” you explain, speaking slowly and enunciating your words as clearly as you can. “ _Wo ist die Australische..._ embassy,” you sigh; this language barrier is probably going to be the death of you.

“ _Obersturmführer Schmidt_!”

You look up to see three more SS approaching from the direction you came. You could almost cry with relief when you recognise one of the trio. You step back, nervous, as the three newcomers greet the other two, raising their right arms. “Schmidt” is smirking as he explains what's happened, and your relief at seeing Dietrich dissolves rapidly as he doesn't even bat an eyelid in your direction. He responds, barely sparing you a glance, and Schmidt seems to grow amused, now looking at you with his smirk even more unnerving.

“German parents?” The friendly officer asks, and you nod.

“Born in Germany, raised in Australia.”

“Robbed? No mark?”

It takes you a moment to realise that he's asking why you have no injuries from being robbed. Thinking quickly, you hesitantly shrug off the coat and pull up your right sleeve, keeping your eyes on the ground. You hear him swear softly, and wince as he grabs your arm gently, inspecting the bruise. He reports his assessment to Schmidt, who judging by the insignia on his collar, outranks Dietrich. Schmidt is still grinning at you like a shark, so you keep your head bowed. You've had too much practice at playing submissive.

One of Dietrich's companions speaks up, drawing Schmidt's attention, and his grin falters for a moment. The friendly officer releases your arm, though, and gives you a reassuring smile.

A hand crashes down onto your shoulder, and you look up to see Dietrich gesturing as he speaks to Schmidt. Schmidt, however, doesn't look too pleased, but Dietrich says something in a smooth tone, gesturing to the body on the ground.

“We are leaving,” he tells you roughly, “Come.”

You're being dragged away from the others before you even realise it, and Schmidt calls out an order. Dietrich stops, hand still on your shoulder as Schmidt sweeps his hat off his head, smiling at you again as he bows.

“Thank you for your assistance, Nicola. We will be sure to repay the favour.”

You don't like the way he says it, almost like a threat. Of course the bastard can speak English, though – you're too familiar with interrogation tactics for his sudden fluency to be a surprise. Dietrich's hand tightens on your shoulder, and you give Schmidt your best smile. Almost stiffly, like your body knows what you are doing and wants to prevent it, you raise your right arm, elbow locked, with your hand open.

“Heil Hitler, Obersturmführer.”

The four other SS salute you back, repeating the phrase, and you let Dietrich drag you away.

“I thought I told you not to leave the apartment,” he hisses once you've turned a corner.

“I didn't mean to get caught up in it!”

He whirls you around and slams your back against the brick wall of the building beside you, hands on your shoulders. He looks livid, and you realise that you might have just put him under question, maybe even more than yourself. Shit. You're really not doing well at this.

“I'm sorry,” you say, hanging your head, “I just... I thought if I went to the Australian embassy, they could help me with temporary papers or whatever. I thought it might help.”

He's glaring at you coldly, and gives you another shove before letting you go.

“You do not leave the apartment,” he tells you again. “Not until I say.”

“But I need food--”

The slap is quick and hard, and you stumble, feeling the split on your lip open again. A hand flies to your cheek, which is stinging, and you look at him, afraid that he might decide a slap isn't enough.

His hand is on your shoulder again, and he steers you down a side street. “You think I would not be aware of this? Presumably to your surprise, you are not the only person with a brain in all of Germany, Nicola.”

He shoves you roughly as you round another corner, and you stumble a few steps, realising you're in front of the gates to the complex. Hands shaking, you unlock the gate and hold it for him.

“I am not coming in,” he tells you, looking down the street. He pulls something out of the deep pocket in his pants and holds it out to you.

“If you set foot outside this gate for the next three days, I will be taking this back,” he tells you. You look at the small booklet he's shoved into your hands, then up at him. “It is stamped with Egypt, Greece, Yugoslavia, Hungary, Austria, and Germany. You travelled with gypsies, but when they realised you intended to leave, they got violent and tried to hold you captive.You escaped with nothing, and have been treated _ever_ so kindly by Ursula Kitsch since.”

You nod numbly, looking at the passport. It's everything you needed, and he's right about the stamps.“Residential address...”

“I am sure you will concoct a convincing lie,” he says, and you see the briefest hint of a smirk before it disappears again. You feel the weight of the booklet, seemingly so minor and simple a thing.

“Die-- Untersturmführer, I don't know what to say. Thank you.”

“Do not get caught again, Nicola.”

You nod fervently, exhaling shakily. “I'm sorry about today. I-I just... I saw him running and I was closer, so I tried to help. I didn't think I'd be getting in trouble for it.”

“I am sure that, were it any other officer, they would have thanked you and moved on.” Dietrich assures you, “Schmidt is... a little _too_ zealous. But people listen to him. I suggest that you remain on his good side. And,” he hits you on the top of the head gently, “ _Learn German_.”

“I have my first lesson this afternoon,” you manage a weak smile, “Ursula is teaching me.”

“I know. I told her to.” he looks slightly amused, but it quickly fades. “I have a task in Stuttgart, so I will be leaving this afternoon, and will return in a few days. I do not know yet how long I will be gone, but hopefully not more than a week. My junior, Gustav Eidelberg, will be dropping by each night to keep you honest,” he levels you with a firm gaze, “Make him comfortable. Talk with him. Improve your German. He is young, and has eight sisters all older and stronger than him, so be gentle. Strong women intimidate him.”

You snort, but sober quickly. You look up at him. “Thank you. For everything you've done for me. I-I'd probably be dead otherwise.”

“Make it worthwhile, then. Do not die as soon as I leave.”

He doesn't bid you farewell, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turns and starts back the way you came.

“Officer!”

He turns back to look at you, and you give him a nervous smile.

“Stay safe out there.”

He falters for a moment, then nods his head once. “And you, Nicola.”

You close the gate as he disappears around the corner, and look at the passport again. It's Australian, and the inside eerily has a photo of you already, gazing at the camera blankly. It takes you a moment to realise the woman in the photo has lighter hair, and looks a few years older – but at a glance it'll serve you well enough. You wonder what kind of status a foreign passport will provide you in 1938 Berlin, but you guess you'll have to wait a few days to find out.

You're not brave enough to defy Dietrich a second time, even if he is in another city.

Your “deceased mother” apparently kept a healthy supply of cooking books, and by looking at the names on the packets of various things, you figure out what belongs where, and what to do. English, fortunately, is a bastardisation of most European languages, so although it takes you a bit of time, you figure out how to make something that resembles... something sort of like bread dough.

At this point, anything that doesn't give you food poisoning is good. You're starting to feel the familiar sting of hunger, but at least here, you can eat any time you want - if you have the food to do so, that is.

You find yourself hunting through the apartment, emptying cupboards and drawers, taking inventory. This fills a couple of hours, and you eventually find yourself sitting by the fire, poking the poor excuse for bread with a stick. Maybe you can get away with calling it pita bread?

You're pretty sure it won't poison you.

You find yourself laying on the lounge, watching the clock. You wish you had a computer, or even just a good book to read. Preferably one in English. Instead, you look at the passport, memorising the stamps, and the severe look on the woman's face. The more you look at your apparent doppelganger, the more convinced you are that it won't work. You wonder if Dietrich has any plans to help you get a German passport.

Thinking of him pressing the passport into your hands makes you think of the situation that immediately preceded it. The Jewish boy. He couldn't have been much younger than you, really, with short dark hair and dark brown eyes. His face is burned into your memory, and so is the image of his body. That was _your_ fault. You may as well have held the gun that fired the bullet that claimed his life.

No.

You force yourself up off the lounge and begin to pace. You refuse to think about it.

_Then think about the others._

No, you refuse to think of that as well.

 _Go back further_.

You stop, staring sightlessly out one of the windows. A tall tree grows in the garden, and the branches cross the window, blocking out the view of Berlin. You're not even looking at Berlin, though.

A middle aged woman is in the garden, laughing as she swings a skipping rope. A man, around the same age, holds the other end. Two girls are clinging to each other, jumping the rope as they chant in sing-song voices about Miss Mary Mack. Sitting to one side, watching, a third girl is leaning forward in her seat. Where the young family has blonde hair, she has a dark red-brown, and their blue eyes are not the same as her unsettling green ones.

You watch as she stands, just beyond the edge of the rope, waiting to run in and join the other two, but she hesitates. Those green eyes track the rope's swing, but she stays in place, poised at the edge of the rope's circle, never jumping in.

You turn away from the window. It's not even real. It's just your imagination, replaying the past from a different perspective. They haven't even been born yet, from this perspective. Suddenly, you feel cold, colder than you've ever felt, but not... not a skin type of cold. This cold permeates your entire being, cutting through your bones. As though expecting it to help, you pull the coat tighter around yourself, but it does nothing.

Even in LA, you had people around you, people who understood. You had your workmates, your friends. Your own little family away from your family. Having someone to hold onto made it all that much easier. One wrong step might have meant death, but it was okay because you still had people to make you feel better. Feel safe. Welcome. Warm.

But this isn't Los Angeles. This is Berlin. You have no one, and one wrong step could mean death.

You have never felt so alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polenaktion ("Polish Action") was the name given to the event on October 27th-29th, 1938, wherein the German government expelled 17,000 Polish Jews from the country. Many of them had already had their citizenship to Poland revoked, and thus were unable to enter the country. They were left stranded in the no-man's-land between German and Polish borders.


	8. Acht

You sit at the small table in the kitchen while Gisela raves in German, pacing angrily. You're nowhere near fluent, but you can get the gist of her angry shouts. Ursula tries – futilely – to calm her down, but instead she just shoves her girlfriend away.

A sheet of paper lays on the table between you and the anxious Ursula, a news headline blaring something in German, and a black and white photograph showing a line of Jews filing towards something, men in SS uniform watching them suspiciously, their swastika armbands clearly displayed in the image as they nurse rifles.

Gisela pivots on her heel, tugging at her hair as she rants, shrill voice so loud that it almost hurts your ears. You keep hearing her swear, and often this is coupled with “Nazis”. You're almost certain that the rest of the building can hear her cries, and Ursula tries again in vain to make her keep her voice down. She's in tears at this point, as the swearing and cursing becomes more frequent, but Gisela seems unaware of this.

“Gisela!” You stand up, unable to tolerate any more of her irrational outbursts. You've read the history books. This much noise is bound to attract attention, and it's only a matter of time before it attracts the _wrong_ attention. You slam your palm flat on the table as you stand up. “ _Shut up_!”

Gisela screeches at you in German, striding up to you and jabbing you in the chest with a long, tapered finger to punctuate each barely-comprehensible word. You gesture to Ursula, scowling, trying to highlight the distress Gisela's rage has left her girlfriend in, but Gisela seems blind to it, now insulting you as well. There's nothing else you can do, you guess.

You slap her.

Gisela staggers from the impact, losing her footing and stumbling into the table. She stares at you in shock for a moment, and you sigh with relief, thinking you've managed to shut her up at least for a few seconds.

Your relief is short-lived, however, as you all hear someone knock heavily on the door. Gisela's scowl turns into a mask of horror, as the weight of her rant seems to sink in. Ursula is also staring at you, lip shaking as she tries to hold back a sob.

“ _Fräulein Kitsch. Bitte öffnen sie die tür. Wir wissen, dass sie zu hause sind._ ”

_Please open the door. We know you are home._

Neither of the women move, and even though you feel the icy fear curling itself throughout your entire being, you know better. You've been in this situation before.

You force yourself to stand, starting for the door.

“ _What are you doing_?” Ursula demands in a hiss, “Don't let them in!”

You want to tell her to stay calm. That opening the door is better than letting them break it down. That the consequences might be lessened if you comply with such a simple command. But you can't voice this. Instead, you force your legs to move stiffly, carrying you to the door and turning the doorknob.

As you expected, two men in the black SS uniform stand outside the door, and you recognise one of them almost immediately.

“Obersturmführer Schmidt,” you force yourself to smile, noting that the officer with him isn't the same friendly one from the other day. He lacks the insignia on his patches, which is enough to tell you that he probably is as young as he looks. “ _Ich entschuldige mich. Mein Deutsch muss noch verbessert werden. Bitte komm herein.”_

“With pronunciation like that, you could be fluent in a matter of weeks,” Schmidt tells you as you hold the door open wider for him and his colleague, who offers you a polite nod. You cast a glance back to see that Gisela's cheek already bears a red mark from the back of your hand. Ursula shrinks in her seat as Schmidt approaches the pair of them, hands clasped behind his back like he's about to scold a toddler.

Except that you're pretty sure he'll use his gun to scold them.

“ _Jetzt_ ,” he says carefully, completely ignoring you as he addresses the two women, “ _Welcher von euch predigte ketzerei?_ ”

Schmidt's voice is soft, gentle, his tone inquisitive. But you know his words carry an underlying threat, and the softness of his voice only makes this threat all the greater – like someone comforting a dog before putting it down.

Ursula's eyes flick to Gisela, who doesn't move in her terror. The minute movement is all Schmidt needs, apparently, because he has a hand on his pistol and is pulling it out of the holster. And suddenly it's the Jewish boy all over again. _You_ let them into the apartment. _You_ were the one that eliminated any chance of escape. You could have given them the opportunity to escape, by holding the door closed instead of opening it to let the wolves in. You could have done literally _anything_ else.

But no. You played the part of the good, honest citizen.

And now someone is going to die. Again.

“What's this?” Schmidt asks, speaking in English – for your benefit, you're sure. He slides the paper across the table towards himself. Only then do you realise that it might not be an entirely legal newsprint sheet.

““Yesterday, Nazi SS officers stripped many helpless Polish Jews of their belongings and citizenship, and deported them to the Polish border where they are being denied entry.”” He looks at the women, icy blue gaze freezing them in their movements. Gisela might not understand English, but she knows the legality of the print – and the fact that it is painting Jews as helpless.

“That's what it says?” You ask suddenly, faking surprise. Schmidt turns to you, an eyebrow already arched. “I didn't read the actual article – I only know that Jews were being deported.”

“As they should be, Miss...?”

“Atkins, Sir. Nicola Atkins.”

“Ah yes. German-born, Australian-raised.” He looks you up and down in the white blouse and dark blue skirt. “How is the identity problem being resolved?”

“The Australian embassy were kind enough to issue me with a temporary passport,” you lie, thinking of the small booklet in your own apartment. You offer a tentative smile, aware of the second officer's eyes boring holes into you. “They were certain that my extensive knowledge of the Gulgong region was evidence of my upbringing there. The town around which I was raised, Sir,” you add, registering his look of mild confusion. “The main two towns were Mudgee and Gulgong. I lived mostly at Putta Bucca and--”

“I did not ask for a geography lesson in Australia, Miss Atkins.”

He sounds more amused than intimidating as he says this, and you guess it's a good sign. At least some of the tension in the room has dissipated.

He looks down at the periodical again, then says something in German to Ursula. Her voice is shaking so much that she can't form a proper reply, and you find yourself stepping forward.

“I brought the paper in,” you lie, and both officers are looking at you again, two pairs of blue eyes tearing into your soul. “When I collected the milk, it was laying beneath it. I thought it odd that it had been place directly beneath, obscuring the headline. I realise now that it must have been an attempt to hide the piece.” You meet Schmidt's gaze. “If I had known what it said, I would have burned it. Instead, I asked Ursula to translate it. Gisela saw it first, though, and recognised one of the women in the picture. I only caught the name Bertha at the beginning of her hysterical rambling.”

Schmidt looks down at the periodical again, before looking at Ursula. He repeats part of your story, and she nods fervently. You could almost curse her eagerness to agree to your story – surefire sign of a guilty party. Schmidt says something to Gisela, who nods hesitantly, replying in German.

His hand is no longer hovering near his pistol, and judging by his tone, you're certain you've at least bought the girls a few more moments. Silently, you offer up a prayer to the gods, willing your uncanny luck to serve you once again – and to extend to the only two friends you have in this world.

“Bertha was apparently a friend to Miss Kitsch,” Schmidt tells you, crumpling the paper in one hand as he turns back to you. “She did not know this woman was a Jew, and the photograph Bertha exchanged did not show any Jewish insignia worn by the woman.”

You have to think on your feet, but you're good at that. You've had three years to perfect your impromptu lying skills, and more before that. Unfortunately, whatever lie you tell has to be believable in 1938 Germany. It takes you a beat, but you quickly realise the angle you can use to exploit the situation.

“That settles it, then,” you say calmly, “Gisela discovered she had been lied to, by a woman who is now being sent away and whom she will likely never hear from again. The loss of the friendship in such a sudden manner must have caused her to momentarily lose her senses – after all, women are not as strong of mind as men, Obersturmführer. Such a devastation might cause a lady who is loyal to the Reich to see enemies among those she is indebted to.”

Schmidt is watching you coolly, and for the briefest of moments, you're certain that your ploy has failed. But you keep your back straight and the look of slight betrayal schooled on your features. If camera crews were able to see this, you'd get an Oscar nomination for sure. Schmidt watches you for a few more moments, which seem to stretch on for eternity, but eventually he slides his icy gaze to the younger officer. They confer briefly, Schmidt relaying what you've already said. You look over to see Ursula is shaking with silent sobs, and Gisela is silently weeping. Schmidt turns back to them and notices this, too.

He barks an order in German, and both of them look up sharply. His hands are clasped behind his back, the illicit tabloid crushed in his fist as he gives them another order. Ursula begins to cry more openly, whispering soft pleas as Gisela stands nervously.

You feel your heart pounding against your ribcage as you watch Gisela, at Schmidt's instruction, step away from the table. He tugs at something hanging from his belt, and you realise with a jolt that it's a small cane, about the length of his forearm. Gisela holds out her arm, and he raises the cane.

_Crack_

Gisela cries out in pain, but Schmidt doesn't listen, raising the cane a second time.

_Crack_

Ursula slumps in her chair, openly sobbing now as Gisela begins to cry as well. Schmidt pauses, before stowing the cane away again. He shakes her slightly as he addresses her roughly, and she nods fearfully, sobbing as she clutches her injured arm. He shoves her roughly, and she stumbles back against the wall as he turns away, fixing Ursula with his glare.

Another order in German. You think he's planning to give her a couple of blows, but instead she nods, raising her right arm.

“Heil Hitler.”

He turns to you next, but your arm refuses to move. Apparently, however, he doesn't intend to force you to offer the Nazi salute.

“Miss Atkins, I believe we have something to discuss. Perhaps you would prefer this to occur in your own dwelling.”

Sly bastard. You nod, before pulling the door open and gesturing for the officers to depart first. Ursula is in tears again – or still – and Gisela looks up from her position on the floor. You offer them a reassuring smile as you follow the Gestapo out of Ursula's apartment.

“I apologise for the mess,” you tell them as you push the door open to the apartment you've taken up residence in. “I've taken to sleeping on the lounge, before the fire; Australia is a very hot place, so I'm not used to the cold of Berlin.”

You've been going through the belongings of the previous inhabitant, your so-called mother. The table in the kitchen is covered in neatly-folded piles of clothing, and a section of the kitchen counter has all the stationery you've been able to find in the apartment, lined up into neat little groups. Everything is perfectly organised, despite the initially chaotic appearance – but of course, the “mess” is confined to the kitchen half of the living area. The lounge is bare of anything that might be out of place, except for the pillow and blanket neatly folded on top of it.

“I understand that it reaches temperatures of more than ninety-five degrees in Australia.”

“More than a hundred, in the area I lived in,” you reply, quickly trying to recall the conversion rates. One hundred Fahrenheit is forty celsius, right? Schmidt gives you the same cool glare that you're starting to think is part of the uniform requirements for the Gestapo. You gesture to the seating in the lounge.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable. _Getränke_? I'm afraid I don't have very much in the way of food, otherwise I'd offer. My upbringing was focused more around boyish tasks, so my cooking skills are extremely lacking.”

Schmidt transfers your offer to the other officer, who nods politely.

“ _Wasser, bitte._ ”

“Water,” you nod at him with a smile, and look expectantly at Schmidt. This is a routine you've developed after having your small dormitory room searched almost weekly by the overseers – a hospitable attitude means less damage incurred during the search process. Schmidt nods and holds up two fingers, reminding you of an old joke you heard that might be suitable for “peacetime” Germany.

Instead, you hurriedly pour three glasses of water and carry them into the lounge on a serving tray.

Schmidt has settled on the lounge, while the other officer remains standing. You offer the glass of water to the other officer first, before setting it on the coffee table well within Schmidt's reach. He's sitting at one end of the lounge, and your people-reading skills, developed from years of being a prisoner in your own home, give you two options.

1\. Sit in one of the armchairs, well out of his reach; or

Sit beside him on the lounge.

You settle yourself a little too close for comfort, on the lounge, collecting your glass and taking a sip as Schmidt eyes the fire and mantel.

“It seems you have already made yourself at home here,” he remarks, “Anticipating a positive response from the citizen registry, are we?”

“Actually, Untersturmführer Dietrich told me that I was not permitted to leave this complex,” you reply honestly, “At least until the matter of my citizenship is determined.”

“If you are recognised, do you intend to stay?”

“I've spent most of the past year travelling, so it would be nice to be allowed to stay, if only for a while.” You reply, “It does take a long time to travel from Australia to Germany, especially as a young woman with no male companions.”

“Clearly,” he finally stops eyeing the water suspiciously and takes a sip, as though expecting it to be poisoned. “How do you plan to support yourself, if you are granted citizenship?”

You can't help but offer a little laugh, playing the part of the naïve optimist. “I have skills that might be useful to potential employers. I'm sure that I can find work of some sort, even if it is just ensuring that _the correct_ news periodicals are reaching peoples' doorsteps.” You smile again, as though at a slight joke. Schmidt is watching you as you speak, and his mouth twitches at your remark.

“What work have you done in the past? In Australia?”

It hits you suddenly, and you realise – these are all questions that have been on citizenship tests since god knows when. He's interviewing you to see if you'd be useful to Germany.

“Plenty of work,” you reply, “My father insisted on moving about frequently, and changing his name, so I didn't have one place to call home until I was near twenty. As you can imagine, this means I changed work frequently, and while I still had the body of a child, he was able to pretend that I was a boy, and put me to work with other boys. I've looked after dogs, hunted vermin, cut wood, herded sheep and cattle, cared for various injuries, and made damper and stew. As you can see, I can set a fire with ease,” you gesture to the fire, which Schmidt acknowledges with a glance, “And you've seen yourself that I can outpace teenage criminals and both take a hit and deliver one. Furthermore, I spent my final year in Australia working in a local tavern, cleaning rooms and tending to the bar – and evicting problem patrons where necessary.”

“You've a long history behind you, it's almost remarkable you had time for school.”

“I was fortunate that many of my employers understood the importance of education. I would attend school three days a week, from dawn to dusk, and carry out my duties on the other four.”

The lies are rolling smoothly now, and you silently pat yourself on the back. Schmidt clearly looks impressed with either your ability to bullshit better than John F. Kennedy about Marilyn Monroe, or the fact that you're a strong independent woman with both a background in hard labour and a formidable education.

“How is it that a clever young woman with physical skills came to be in this situation, then?” He asks, arching an eyebrow. You falter, and allow yourself to lower your gaze. Slowly, you wrap your hands around the cool glass, tightening your grip on the crystal.

“I prefer not to focus on the past, Obersturmführer,” you say quietly, “Misfortune does not discriminate, it would seem. I found myself at the mercy of men, and they... took advantage of that weakness.”

“What men?” Schmidt asks, raising his eyes briefly to his colleague. You keep your gaze downcast, as if you're looking at the glass in your hands.

“A travelling group. Very musical, with lots of jewellery and superstitions. I think you call them gypsies? They offered to help me get from Greece to Germany, and I didn't bother to look a gift horse in the mouth.” You falter, grip tightening on the glass. “I probably should have. I might still be in Greece, but at least I would still have my money and my dignity.”

The glass shatters suddenly, the crystal giving out under the pressure of your grip. You catch yourself crying out in surprise as the water spills over your lap, soaking through your skirt, and you drop the remaining shards as you find your feet.

“I'm sorry! I didn't--”

Schmidt is standing as well, and you shoot him a frightened look before looking down at the glittering shards on the lounge and floor. Some smaller shards have clung to the heavy woolen fabric of the skirt, which is darkened with the water, and you move to brush them off, but stop just in time, shooting another look at both Gestapo this time. To your surprise, Schmidt chuckles softly.

“You clearly have a strength many ladies lack,” he remarks, taking one of your wrists in his gloved hand and turning your palm over, to show only a few minor scratches on the skin. “That glass would have lacerated the skin of most women.”

You find yourself giving a single bark of nervous laughter. “I'm more accustomed to thicker ceramics.” _Or glass that isn't going to fucking break if you sneeze on it._

You're not sure if you're more annoyed about the glass shards now covering your bed, or nervous about the potential threat your accident could be misconstrued as. Fortunately, Schmidt seems to have taken pity on your steaming pile of bullshit, and barks an order to his colleague, who quickly disappears into the kitchen, returning with a broom.

Almost as suddenly, you're swept off your feet and into the air by Schmidt, who nimbly steps away from the glass. He sets you on your feet gently, and you stare at him.

“Wouldn't want you to cut those fleet feet, would we?” He smirks at you, “You might have trouble helping to chase down the next Jewish thief with glass under that skin.”

You want to vomit at the chivalry, regardless of whether it's fake or genuine. His touch makes your skin crawl, and you'd rather be ten million miles away from here, and ten million years, too. But instead, you get to be here with a man who, within the next year, will probably be personally responsible for hundreds of murders. You've already seen him do it once.

“Such a gentleman,” you smile at him, before realising the other officer is sweeping away the mess. “Oh, I can do that--”

“Let him clean up,” Schmidt tells you, “After all you've done to help us, it is the least we can do.”

You want to use a piece of broken glass to stab yourself for even thinking of saying it, but the words are spilling before you can recall them. “I live to serve, Sir. If there is ever any way I can help the Nazi cause, I will do so.”

His expression shifts ever so slightly, and the tension in the room changes, becoming charged almost immediately. He pats you gently on the shoulder.

“You are a better German than even some who are raised here, it seems,” he tells you, before looking at his colleague. “We will be leaving you now. I will investigate the reason for the delays in your citizenship. Let us hope that there is a place in Germany for a fine lady like yourself. _Guten morgen_ , _Fraulein Atkins_.”

You wait until the door is closed and the sounds of their boots have receded down the stairs before firmly smacking yourself on the cheek.

 


	9. Neun

The evening was silent, fires dotting the open land between the two country borders, figures huddling around for light and warmth. Shadows patrolled the western border, rifles glinting in the moonlight. A lone figure moved across the space between the camped refugees and the border where the shadows patrolled, keeping low as though hoping to avoid notice.

A crack echoed across the space, and the figure froze, before collapsing to the ground.

“Even in the dark!” One of the other SS crowed happily, slapping a fellow black-clad officer on the back. “No wonder you rose through the ranks so fast. Most here would have missed that shot.

Dietrich chose to ignore the praise, shrugging it off. “He was moving directly towards me, and slowly. It wasn't a difficult shot.”

The senior officer chuckled, slapping Dietrich's shoulder again. “Go take your rest, Untersturmführer. You've hardly slept since this whole thing began, and you've done more than your share of the work. We'll have replacements arriving tomorrow afternoon; you can return home after they're here.”

Dietrich nodded once, saluting his superior before slipping off towards the temporary barracks that had been set up. It was little more than a long tent with many cots filling it in neat rows, but it had served as the temporary home for the fifty officers currently stationed at the border, preventing any Jews from attempting to return to Germany.

Dietrich settled himself by one of the fires that had been lit outside of the main tent, accepting food from one of the women who moved among the officers. Idly, he found himself wondering if this was what life was like in war times, defending a point. Would they be expected to dig trenches and string barbed wire fences in the space between the enemy encampment and their soggy defense line?

He had only known of the war what he had been taught, but he'd listened to the old men talk about it when he was younger. Difficult times. Dangerous times. The man sleeping on the cot beside you might not be there the next night.

He shook himself from these thoughts as someone strode towards the small knot that had gathered with him around the fire. The man had a hand on the shoulder of a teenage boy, who wore the tan shirt and black shorts of a _Hitlerjugend_.

“Is one of you Untersturmführer Dietrich?” The officer asked. Dietrich raised his hand, as if in greeting, and the teenager scurried over to him, holding out a leaf of paper.

“Obersturmführer Schmidt sends his regards, Sir,” the youth stated. Up close, he looked older than initially, at least old enough to ride a motorcycle. Dietrich turned his attention to the message, leaning towards the fire to read the words properly.

_I hope this message finds you well and in good time, Dietrich. You will be interested to learn that a situation arose this morning involving the Kitsch “sisters” and their little runaway friend. I took the opportunity to interview Miss Atkins independently, and she has provided me with information that suggests she is more than sympathetic to the cause. With encroaching plans, we should test her resolve – I am sure you understand that a woman who can witness death so unflinchingly would be valuable as an informant. I will vouch for her to encourage the registry offices to speed up their investigation. We should discuss her use and allegiance upon your return. Take care. -S._

Dietrich read the message over several times, his scowl deepening with each reread. He looked up to see the youth was still waiting for him.

“What do you want? You've delivered your letter.”

The youth beamed at him, as though he was meeting an idol and not a Gestapo officer in a muddy field. “I was ordered to wait, in case you wished to send a reply, Sir,”

“Tell him I'll be back tomorrow evening,” Dietrich waved a hand, “I'll meet him then. Same place and time. Go get yourself some food then go home.”

He turned his attention back to the fire, mulling over Schmidt's message. Why was he so surprised that the Atkins girl had drawn the attention of other officers? She seemed like a magnet for trouble, honestly. Of course, if Schmidt considered her worthy enough to be an informant, then he had also noticed that strength she hid beneath the naïve, girlish exterior. Dietrich still wasn't sure if this was good news or not - Schmidt was as likely to turn against his own mother as he would a Jew, and the fact Atkins was now known to him meant that in the same breath he might order for her protection, he might also order her death.

Something about that idea didn't sit well with Dietrich. Whatever riddles she had tried to explain to him, she had only succeeded in conveying to him one thing: that she was his ally. Why he concerned himself with her wellbeing was a complete mystery, but if what she had said was true, about being forced into the situation she had outlined, then of course she would seem disoriented, and thus her explanations would be lacking critical information. Of one thing about her, he was certain: she told no lie about being from another time.

He tried to divert his thoughts from that. The earnest in her voice as she had conveyed the desperation of her situation had been genuine, and he knew almost certainly that even a foreign spy would not hold the technology she boasted ownership of.

Again, he tried not to think about that. Instead, he let his mind drift to the events of the last few days, and the events that were suspiciously near in the future.

The riots were inevitable. They had been planned long in advance, discussed only verbally so that no record of them could ever be found, information shared among the loyal who would stir up the rest when the time was right. All they needed was a reason. Of course, Dietrich was still unsure if he supported the plans – much as they might hate to admit it, Jewish commerce also contributed to Germany's economy, and removing that might damage the nation's economic stability.

Of course, he wasn't an economist; he could only guess at such things. But for as much as he disliked the Jews, he could not deny they were indeed as much a part of Germany as he himself. He could do nothing to prevent the plans to destroy their commerce, but... perhaps he could delay it.

“Grynszpan...”

The name the traveller had given him, of a future assassin, rolled off Dietrich's tongue of its own accord. The Jew would murder a man, claiming revenge. His act of vengeance would be used to light the flame that would tear through Jewish communities throughout all of Germany. Perhaps... perhaps if this assassin did not act first, the riots would be delayed, and they would have more time to simply deport foreign Jews outside of the borders. Even place them in the work camps.

Dietrich resisted the urge to shy away as a superior took the vacated seat beside him, immediately striking up conversation with others around the fire. Dietrich chose not to involve himself, instead watching the flames dance as his mind laid out all possible avenues of action. He was more than aware that if he uttered any sort of sympathy for the Jews, his own position would be endangered – and he rather liked not being branded an enemy of the state.

Men around him slowly began to disperse, most moving either for their posts along the German border, or for a cot in the main tent. The fire was beginning to burn low by the time Dietrich had finally made up his mind. After a quick word with the officers guarding the road entry, he took one of the few spare bikes and crossed the single mile between Germany and the refugee encampment.

Most of the Jews appeared to be huddled in close groups around small fires, and the similarity between this and the various officers huddled around their own fires made him feel a little unsettled. He felt no fear walking among these numbers, who could quite easily overwhelm him if not for the two guns he carried and the dagger on his belt. Most shrunk back from him, and tense conversation gave way to nervous whispers in his wake.

A polite enquiry gave him a wave in a vague direction, and it was only a minute or two before he reached the area of the camp mostly inhabited by the families evicted from Hanover. This area was significantly worse than the other spaces he'd passed through, with groups of up to twenty people crowded around one small fire. Many of them regarded him warily as he passed among them, looking for someone who might be cooperative – which he found in the form of a middle aged man who appeared to be moving between groups.

Dietrich stepped in front of the man, blocking his path, and for a moment, they stared each other down. The Jew bowed his head politely, giving in first.

“I thought you Germans had washed your hands of us when you turned us out to walk here,” the man remarked, in heavily-accented German, “What would an officer want with our _filth_ at such a late hour... Sir.”

The honorific dripped with as much insult as a single word could be given, but Dietrich chose to ignore it. The man had just been turned from his home and stripped of all valuables; of course he would hate the uniform of the people who had done this.

“I am seeking a family,” he stated, “Grynszpan. Specifically, a young woman of the family, named Berta.”

The man's heavy eyebrows drew together with concern, but he nodded reluctantly, eyes darting to the dagger and pistol both hanging from his belt. “Fortune favours you, Officer. This way.”

The man turned and led Dietrich further into the camp. More whispers followed them, and Dietrich saw people darting from group to group, as if trying to spread some sort of news. It had only occurred to him that they might be trying to warn his target of his coming when he saw a man grab a young woman from one of the groups and try to shepherd her away, to her surprise.

“Sergel!” The Jew leading him called out, and the man stopped, turning to face the older man as his shoulders slumped in defeat. The elder spoke briefly in Yiddish, and Sergel glared at Dietrich, before reluctantly nodding.

“Sergel is her father,” the Jew explained, as the man and young woman approached, “If it please you, Officer, Herr Sergel and I would prefer to accompany you. Many young ladies have gone... _missing_ , in the past few days. We can only assume what has become of them.”

This revelation disturbed Dietrich. Jews were supposedly always looking out for each other, supporting their communities – why would they be turning on each other now, in the midst of this despair?

He nodded his acquiescence, then gestured with a gloved hand, addressing the woman. “Miss Berta Grynszpan, I believe? I'd rather we speak beyond these stalls,” he indicated for her to follow, and she did so, clutching a shawl around her shoulders tightly. He could sense the presence of the father and community leader behind them, and the eyes of hundreds more following them as he led the girl to the edge of the camp.

The dim firelight didn't serve her well, nor did the two or three days of poor hygiene. Under other circumstances, she might have been somewhat pretty, but this was not a time that served her appearance. She looked as frightened as a small bird, glancing around nervously as they stopped just beyond the rope barrier that indicated the edge of the encampment. The father and other Jew stood close by, too close for Dietrich's comfort – but he could at least open the conversation and assuade their fears for the woman's safety.

“You have a brother in France, correct?” He asked the woman. She shot a frightened look at her father, who nodded slowly.

“Herschel. Or Hermann, as you'd call him in your tongue,” Sergel replied. “What's Berta got to do with it?”

Dietrich ignored the father, keeping his attention on Berta.

“You planned to write to him tomorrow, yes?”

Her eyes widened as she stared at him, jaw slackening. “How could you know? Even Father does not.”

Dietrich gabe the two men another glance. “Would you mind stepping back inside the rope?” He asked them, “The more ears that hear this, the more questions will be asked.”

The father looked livid, scowling at Dietrich, but the elder placed a hand on his arm. At a few gentle words, Sergel backed down, reluctantly retreating to the rope barrier. Dietrich could hear Berta's shaky breaths as she tried to keep herself calm, and turned back to her.

“I bear you no ill will,” he told her, “Nor do I seek to take anything from you that has not already been taken. All I ask is that you do not make your condition here apparent to your brother in that postcard. He is currently being hunted by the French authorities himself, and begging him for help will only upset him even more. He has been determined by authorities to be unstable, and causing further stress may have devastating consequences.”

Berta stared at him, wide-eyed, listening to him as he spoke. He stopped, and she lowered her gaze for a moment, before digging into her dress and pulling out a small card. Dietrich stared at it for a moment, then at her.

“This is what I had written,” she explained, “I planned to add more about our desperation, but... Untersturmführer, if he knew, what would he do? You seem to have impossible knowledge; please. Tell me. I know he is unwell, and I fear for him.”

Dietrich looked the girl up and down, then cast a glance back at the two men watching, out of earshot.

“If your brother learns of this,” he gestured to the camp, “He will kill a man in an attempt to avenge your situation. And in return, the murder of a German diplomat by a Jewish man will cause rioting that will see hundreds more Jews suffer. It will turn the German people against the Jewish population.”

She inhaled shakily, hand flying to her mouth, and her eyes searched his face for something, as though she believed it was a trick. After a moment of finding nothing, shelooked down, shaking her head.

“H-he would not do that, surely! That would be a death sentence upon himself!”

“I only know what I was told,” Dietrich replied, “Herschel Grynszpan will kill a German diplomat to avenge his family's deportation, and as a result the German population will rise against the Jews. All I am asking is that you exclude a little information from your card to him. One small act might be enough to prevent him becoming an assassin.”

She was still shaking her head, hand covering her mouth as she began to shake with sobs. Ever aware of the glare of her father, Dietrich resisted the urge to try and comfort her. Any sort of offered gesture could easily be misinterpreted by the angry man.

“Miss Grynszpan, please,” he tilted his head, “It has not happened yet. You can prevent it happening, simply by excluding a few lines from your letter. Tell him to take care of himself, that God will look after you, any sort of comfort you can offer him – do not tell him of,” he gestured to the camp with a wave of his arm, “ _This_. And in return,” he hesitated, already regretting what he was about to say, “I will see what I can do about getting your Polish citizenship renewed.”

The shock had dissipated, leaving behind another look of incredulity as she stared at him, searching for a lie once again. Her face slowly split into a broad smile.

“You'd do that? To help us?”

“I make no promises,” he told her firmly, “But I can vouch for you to the Polish officials. It remains up to them to determine your citizenship.”

He wasn't expecting her to throw herself at him, flinging her arms around him gleefully, and wordlessly. He stumbled back a step, the sudden attack throwing him off-balance temporarily, but he quickly regained himself and, hesitantly, patted the Jewish girl on the back.

“ _Get off her you fucking dog_!”

Dietrich barely had a chance to understand what was happening before Berta was wrenched away, and another body slammed into him. This second onslaught was heavier and larger than the girl, and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Immediately, Dietrich had switched into action. He brought the heel of his palm up, slamming into the side of his attacker's head. Someone was shrieking for them to stop, but the attacker swung his fist, catching Dietrich's jaw. He threw himself sideways, rolling, and dislodged the man that had been pinning him down, pulling the pistol from his belt at the same time. He rolled to his knees to see the attacker racing at him with a weapon raised above his head. For the briefest of moments, the light from the fires caught his face, and Dietrich recognised Sergel, but his mind was in the fight, and there was an enemy rushing him with a weapon and clear intent to kill.

Dietrich fired once. The man's head snapped back and he fell, dead.

 


	10. Zehn

You're halfway to asleep when there's a soft knock on the door.

It's Wednesday night, sometime after eight if the clock is to be trusted, and you've been somewhere between sleeping and waking for the past four or five hours. There's a gnawing sensation in your stomach that is achingly familiar, but if you don't move too much then it isn't as bad.

You're in bad shape. You know this without even needing a doctor to say so. You've lost weight, and despite living on rations for most of the past three years, you're not entirely accustomed to this level of hunger pains. You know you'd be fine if you could just get off the lounge and make another damper loaf, but the entire process takes more energy than what you usually have left after a day of work.

You know that you should hate it, but you can't help but be thankful to the creepy Schmidt. Whatever information he passed on to the registry, they suddenly decided you were worthy of German citizenship, and the new passport – with the correct photo of yourself – is laying on the coffee table. Finding work was easier with the passport, since you could present that to prove your citizenship despite your broken German. Almost as if someone up above was looking out for you, a vendor who could speak very rough, broken English had recently been injured – so you've spent the last week doing all the heavy lifting for him while he handles the stall. In return, he pays you with fresh produce from the stall, and staples from other stalls.

It's not exactly the best, and you think he might be underpaying you, but for now it's something – and it saves you the awkwardness of trading marks for food with barely-comprehensible German as your only form of communication.

“It's open,” you call out, trying to ignore the throatiness of your voice. Jesus, when was the last time you had a drink of water? A glass bottle full of the stuff is still sitting on the table, just an arm's length away, but you're loath to let any cool air in under the thick blankets you're covering yourself with.

The tread is light, but the shoes are heavy, like boots. You figure it's Gustav, because the last few nights when he's come by, he's tried to tread very lightly because you've been “ill”. You don't even make an effort to sit up at this point – you're too tired.

“Nicola?”

The door clicks shut, and the footsteps cross the floor to the lounge. You tilt your head to see the other familiar blonde-haired blue-eyed boy staring at you, brows furrowed with concern.

“I did not mean to wake you,” he says, moving towards the nearer armchair, “You look pale. Gustav said you seemed ill.”

“I'm fine,” you smile at Dietrich, surprised to find you're relieved at his company. “Just tired. How did the deportations go?”

He smirks slightly, sitting on the edge of the armchair as he surveys your face – or what he can see of it above the blankets.

“How did you know I was involved?”

“Lucky guess,” you reply, “Looks like someone got a hit in, judging by the split in your lip and the cut on your brow.”

He touches his fingers to the cut on his brow, before smiling again, looking away. “I tried to make peace with someone. Her father did not like me very much.”

“You should know better than to confront daughters in front of their fathers,” you tease. If you're going to be talking, you figure you may as well take that drink of water. Slowly, you reach out from under the blanket and wrap your hand around the neck of the bottle.

“Gustav said you found work, too,” Dietrich states as you pull the bottle to your lips. You nod, taking a few mouthfuls before setting it on the ground – you feel too tired to place it back on the table.

“It's very physical,” you explain, noticing his eyes are fixed on your hand. “I spend most of the day pulling a cart and loading crates of produce on and off. He pays me in food--”

Dietrich shifts off the armchair as you move to draw your hand back under the blanket, catching it in his grip and pressing it between both of his hands. You fall silent as you watch him wrap his thumb and index finger around your wrist, and your heart sinks as he swears softly.

“How much has he been paying you with?” He demands, looking up without taking his hands off yours. “You've lost a lot of weight, Nicola. More than is normal.”

“I know,” you tell him, “But I'll be okay. I've just got to adjust. Life here is a lot more strenuous and, like, I'm sure he's being fair with what he gives me...” your argument falters as he turns his gaze on you. His eyes are about two shades darker than Matt's, and you can't help but keep drawing that comparison between your friend and this stranger.

“What does he usually give you for your work?” He asks again, slowly this time. You shrink into your blankets.

“There's a crate on the bench, in the kitchen. That's from today, and it's usually what I get any other day.”

He tucks your hand back under the blanket before standing up and moving into the kitchen. You fix your gaze on the flames, trying to pretend not to notice his movements.

“How many hours a day do you work for this man?” He asks after a few moments. You shrug.

“Dawn until around three. I meet Ursula at three-thirty for German lessons, but I had to skip today because I was struggling to get up the stairs with the crate.”

You hear him walk back into the living room, and he sets the crate on the coffee table.

“And this is everything he gave you today? For nine hours of work?”

“I've barely had energy to stir the fire,” you tell him, “I didn't bother putting it away – it won't go old on the counter, not in this weather.”

He fixes you with a piercing glare, and you sigh. “Yes, that's what he gives me every day for my work.”

Dietrich looks down at the crate, his expression almost unreadable. You watch him as he assesses the produce in the crate. A few carrots, two lemons, some apples, berries, and half a pound of flour.

“This all together is worth little more than five marks,” he tells you, raising his gaze to you, “For nine hours of manual labour, you should be getting at least twenty. He is cheating you, and you are starving for it.”

Your gaze drops to the crate, feeling your heart sink as you realise you were right. Your eyes are burning, and you huddle down into the blankets to mask the fact you're wiping away tears. Why the fuck can't things just be _easy_? Why can't shit just work out, for once?

You feel rather than see as Dietrich sits on the lounge, on the edge of the seat, and he tugs the blanket away from your face.

“I will have someone do an audit tomorrow,” he tells you gently, “That should make him pay you accordingly.”

“What if it doesn't?” You whisper, “What if he uses it as an excuse to dismiss me?”

“Then we will find you other work. How is your German?”

You grimace, and this seems to be enough of a response for him. He sighs, before tugging his gloves off.

“You do prefer the warmer weather, don't you?” He remarks, and you scoff.

“This isn't warm – this is what our winter nights get to. I'm gonna need to cut a lot more wood if I'm not going to freeze in my sleep.”

Dietrich snorts at this. “I'm sure you could find someone to warm your bed. Or rather, your couch,”

You chuckle softly at the joke, before readjusting your blankets. “I'll just have to get used to it, I guess. It was summer when I left... well, where I came from. Hot weather and all that. I'm sure I'll be used to it by next winter.”

“You must first get through this winter, though,” Dietrich points out, “Next year means little if you freeze to death this year. And this would concern me greatly,” he gives you a small smile as his hand finds yours. You smile back, feeling another wave of fatigue pass over you again, but you push it away.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask him softly, “I'm just... another girl in the street. Why do I matter to you?”

He watches you silently for a moment, and you can almost see his brain working behind those eyes. You realise you're locked in another staring competition, and you break the contact, looking down to see his hand still wrapped around yours.

“I like to challenge myself,” he says slowly, and you look up at him. “Challenge my own beliefs. My parents never appreciated such challenges, and so they became blind followers. I do not wish to be a blind follower. I wish to know, to plan, to be ready for any possible alternative. And, if I can, avert disaster. And you, who came stumbling in here with your talk of the future and... travelling in time, not to mention your warnings of war – it challenges what I have known my entire life.”

You watch him for a few more moments as he looks away. He's just told you something he probably doesn't tell a lot of people, a theory that is only further confirmed when he shifts awkwardly.

“Most people wouldn't like something like that. To have their beliefs challenged.”

“I find that it is essential in reaffirming your own belief in yourself,” he replies, looking back at you, “It is like completing a long run – you can run the same distance you always run, at the same pace, or you can run harder and further, and push yourself that bit further every day. Of those two runners, who do you think would win the marathon?”

You like his metaphor, and pull your blankets up around you again, smiling slightly at him. “So it's more about growing, as a person, than about maintaining your beliefs?”

He nods slowly, before leaning over you and tucking the blanket up around your shoulders.

“You have talked through a yawn four times in the last ten minutes,” he tells you, hint of a smile on his lips. “Sleep, Nicola. I'll gather another blanket for you, but you should sleep, especially if you are to work again tomorrow.”

You nod slowly with a smile, and he stands up, disappearing. He returns quickly with another thick blanket that you know for a fact he pulled off the bed in the other room, and he tucks it around you.

You know that he stays until you fall asleep, watching over you like a protector. For some reason, despite the fact that he is a Nazi and Gestapo, you find a small comfort in this. Maybe it's because, if you squint just enough through your lashes, he looks almost exactly like Matt.

  
  


He's gone when you wake up, but a large log has been added to the fire and is burning slowly, keeping the room warm. You look up at the clock to see it's nearly five. A hint of light outside the windows warns that dawn is nearing.

Reluctantly, you begin to go through your new daily routine, grabbing an apple first and eating through that. You've never really considered how much you take showers for granted, but now that you can't actually take them, you're starting to miss them.

Light is fringing the horizon as you exit the complex, and begin along the street. The coat Gisela gave you might seem lacking in style, but it protects you against the dawn breeze.

It's almost a full kilometre from the apartment complex to where you have to collect the first of the produce. The truck driver nods at you as you load up the small cart Heinrich gave you, and start the walk back to the markets, passing the place you're starting to call home. It's menial work, and it burns a lot of energy, but you sneak a piece of fruit here and there, and it's usually enough to help you keep going for the day. Your job is mostly loading crates or doing deliveries in the local area, and nobody seems eager to stop you in your business, so it's easy to lose track of time.

“ _Guten morgen,_ Nicola,” Heinrich, your employer, beams at you as he struggles to his feet, leaning heavily on an old cane. He's been helping you where he can, by speaking only in German and waiting for you to translate it and then reply in German, correcting you where you go wrong. It's a good practice, and you've noticed that you've been progressing twice as fast with his help than with the daily lesson with Ursula.

“ _Guten morgen,_ Herr Heinrich. _Liste für mich_?”

He shakes his head, giving a furtive glance to the butcher across the street as he beckons you closer.

“I am told there will be...” he hesitates, looking for the right word, “ _Prüfung_. Check. Today. You cannot be here. Go home for today.”

You recall Dietrich's comment last night, about arranging an audit, and stare at the middle-aged German before you.

“But, the deliveries, and the crates--”

“I did before you, I can do for one day,” he nods slowly, “If you are caught, we might both be... _Ärger_. Bad things.”

“I'll be fine,” you lie, “I have my passport with me, both my German and my Australian. And there's officers who can vouch for me if my identity is questioned.”

“Is not identity,” he says, shifting awkwardly as he looks at everything but you, “Is... your job here. Not fully legal.”

He's trying to get rid of you so he can lie to the auditors. You can almost hear his claims of working alone and having no employees. You shake your head, smiling at him.

“Heinrich, sit down or you're going to hurt yourself,” you tell him, “You know you should be resting. Whatever it is, I'm sure we can sort it out now, get the papers right so that whoever comes by won't have anything to be suspicious of. Hell, I can even say I started today, if that helps.”

Heinrich grimaces. “Others know. They tell.” He insists, “You cannot be here. Go home.”

“I need the work,” you tell him, stressing your need, “I need to eat, to have the food to survive on. I can't afford to lose a day of work. Whatever it is, we can just sort it out now. Come on, where do we need to start?”

He huffs, giving you an annoyed glare, and for a few moments you think you might have screwed up your chances of keeping the job. But he lets out a frustrated sigh and looks away.

“I'd not said you work for me,” he tells you, “Should have said immediately. Papers to sign.”

“Well, we can sort that out,” you insist. You know exactly what he's trying to avoid saying, but you'll be damned if you let him get away with not admitting to it. He shifts again, grimacing.

“I've not paid right.”

You stop for a moment, staring at him as though this is a surprise to you. “What do you mean, not paid right?”

“I cheated,” he sighs, turning away in frustration, “I pay you not enough for work. Should pay more but better to pay cheaper.”

When Dietrich first pointed it out, you tried to let yourself believe that it was because the stall was doing badly, or because Heinrich wasn't sure of the wage rules. But with this admission, you can't even try to defend him. Nor do you want to.

“You mean, you've been paying me less than what I'm worth?” You ask, “Because you'd rather line your own pockets than be an honest man? I barely have the energy to do anything aside from work, I feel a constant hunger ache because I'm not eating enough, and--” you pull your sleeve back to display the bony forearm that caught Dietrich's attention last night, “I've lost weight so fast that another few weeks of this would have had me _dead_! And all because you wanted to keep a few extra marks for _yourself_?”

He's visibly uncomfortable as you let your anger out, your voice rising in volume. You can feel curious eyes glancing at the pair of you, but you don't even care.

“I was offered to cut wood for work,” you continue, “But I chose to work for you, because without my help, _your_ business would fail – and this is what I get in return?”

He waves a hand as you keep raising your voice, hushing you as more attention is drawn to the scene. You're not even sure if you're sorry about the damage this might do to his reputation, but you're too angry to care. All of your own frustrations are rising, and being let out against this miserable, stingy rat.

“I pay you right from now,” he says, interrupting you, “Twenty marks for one day. I pay you right but only if you go home today. _Please_ , Nicola!”

You fold your arms, clearly taking a stance, and he reaches into the bag where he keeps the money, reaching out and snatching one of your hands as he straightens up. He presses a small purse into your hand, forcing your fingers closed around it.

“There! Fifty marks! Go home today, come back tomorrow, yes?” He nods, looking afraid. You glance down at the purse he's given you, before giving him another scowl.

“This isn't over,” you tell him, “We'll be discussing this properly tomorrow morning. Good luck.” _You're going to need it,_ you add to yourself, as you turn on your heel and leave the stall. You can feel eyes on you still as you head along the street, realising too late that you're heading the wrong way, but too proud to turn around and walk back in the opposite direction.

You spot a single black uniform among the early market-goers as you pass the woodcutters, and for the briefest of moments, you make eye contact with the officer – but his gaze slides on past you, and he continues on his way. You feel yourself shiver at the coldness of his gaze, but brush it off. Most officers, you've found, tend to have an icy attitude.

With nothing else to do, you find yourself wandering aimlessly, slowing your pace as you look around you. You guess not many people can say that they've seen Berlin like this – before the wall, before the war, before everything that happened. Obviously, there are those that have their memories, but you're almost certain that by 2023, most of them have passed on.

You pause for a moment to count the money in the purse. A few notes and some coins, but you guess based on the numbers that he was right when he said fifty marks. You set off again, wondering where to go now – you know you need to get food, something with lots of carbs, and maybe some protein, but the only place you've really been is the markets in your own street.

A scent catches your attention, and you turn to see a small shop, lights on and tables out the front. Cafe? No – the smell of fresh bread tells you that the store is primarily a bakery. You can't help but smile to yourself a little as you head inside.

It's warm and there isn't a whole lot of space, but you can see in the glass cabinets an entire array of sweet and savoury delicacies. The smell makes the pangs in your stomach all the worse, but you're lucky enough to be the only person in the shop, and the woman behind the counter is smiling broadly at you.

“ _Guten morgen_!” She chirps in a borderline unnaturally cheerful tone, “ _Womit kann ich dir helfen_?”

_What can I help you with?_

Time to test out your rusty German. You step up to the counter, matching her cheery smile with your own.

“ _Guten morgen. Könnte ich bitte drei davon haben_?” You ask, pointing first at collection of pies that a small sign claims are “ _Hackfleisch_ ”, which you already know means minced beef, “ _Und zwei dovan, bitte_.” You point at a large scroll, which you suspect is cinnamon-flavoured, but you guess you'll have to eat it first to be sure.

“Dovan?” The woman falters, before noticing you're pointing, and the smile returns to her face as she hurries to collect the things you've requested. “ _Davon_ , _Fraulein. Du bist kein Deutscher_?”

_You are not German?_

The tone suggests it's a question, but you simply smile as she sets the paper bags on the counter and rings up the order. You hand over a note, and she returns a few small coins, which you wave away. Let her keep the tip, you figure.

The bell above the door rings as you collect the bags, tucking the pastries into the large pockets of the coat as you turn around and find yourself face-to-face with two more black-uniformed officers.

“Sorry!” You say on reflex, realising you're blocking their, path, before quickly correcting yourself as you sidestep the taller one. “Er – _entschuldigung_.”

The older of the pair now stands between you and the door, and you realise that, judging by the look he's giving you, he knows you're not German. You run over all the phrases in your head, but none of them seem to be fitting, so you instead force a smile. “ _Guten morgen. Es ist ein schöner tag, oder_?”

He's still giving you that icy look that you've learned to recognise as the suspicious glare, and he doesn't seem to be planning on moving from the doorway any time soon.

“Uh... _Entschuldigen Sie mich Herr_.”

“Not German, are we?” He asks, with a thick accent. You're surprised to realise he's speaking English, and you stare at him as he gives you a small smile that isn't at all reassuring. “I spent a few years in England. It is difficult to be understood in German there.”

“Of course, Sir,” you nod respectfully, “As I've come to learn that it is difficult to be understood in English here.”

The smile slips slightly, but returns – and this time, it's less like a shark and more like an amused officer. He glances at his colleague, before tilting his head.

“In future, I suggest you greet all officers with a salute,” he tells you, “As is customary, now I must see your papers.”

You've been expecting this since you first left the house, and a quick rummage in pastry-laden pockets produces both the Australian – with a better picture of yourself – and the German one – with a slightly different picture. You hand them over, and he looks over both of them.

“Born German, raised Australian, now returning to your homeland,” he remarks, “I believe one of the younger officers relayed your story, Miss Atkins. Obersturmführer Konrad Schmidt?”

“Yes, he interviewed me a few days ago,” you reply, “An honourable man.”

Christ, if you got a mark for every lie you've already told today, you'd never need to work again. But it seems to pacify the older officer, who hands both passports back.

“Take care, Miss Atkins. And welcome home.” He smiles, stepping aside. You smile graciously as you move for the door. You've suddenly decided that hiding in the apartment all day is a fucking fantastic idea, and you need to carry out that plan before you run into any more SS.

  
  


 


End file.
